


The Chain

by imustgofirst



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/pseuds/imustgofirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Phillip Stroh is back, Sharon acknowledges, or that Brenda Leigh is, but that they never went away at all. Some events, some people, have the uncomfortable ring of destiny. -- This is a reworked and completed version of a story I began posting several years ago. Brenda/Sharon, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you can call it another lonely day

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the artist formerly known as "Wrecking Ball." The first four chapters have been extensively edited; everything else is new. Comments give me life.

Fandom: Major Crimes/The Closer

Rating: T (overall M)

The Chain

Chapter One: you can call it another lonely day

1\. gold dust woman

Brenda Leigh Johnson looked up from her computer monitor the instant the quick, light rap on her office door reached her ears. She thought fleetingly of the still-fairly-recent past, when every interruption to her work had been looked upon with annoyance, if not downright disdain. Now she relished any distraction, no matter how minor.

A relieved smile tugged at the corners of her wide mouth as a familiar smooth blonde head peeped around the door frame. "Am I interrupting?"

"Yes, thank goodness." Brenda turned up the volume on her smile a little for D.D.A. Andrea Hobbs. "What can I do for you, Andrea?"

The other woman answered her smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Andrea Hobbs was one of the bright spots of Brenda's new job, and since the former deputy chief had taken up this post in the D.A.'s office a little over a year ago, the two women had become friendly, if not quite friends - not yet, anyway, Brenda amended. In her own stilted way, she'd been trying to move them along that path. She'd realized she could use a friend these days, and as much as she appreciated David Gabriel, she could never make him her confidant.

Not that what she wanted was a confidant, per se. It wasn't as if Brenda had suddenly discovered a heretofore unknown urge to Talk About Her Feelings. But it would be nice to have someone to go out with for a drink and to talk about something besides the endless reams of paperwork the job generated.

Andrea's smile took on an apologetic cast. "I know we mentioned going for a drink after work to kick off the weekend, but would you mind terribly if we rescheduled?"

"Oh." Brenda Leigh was afraid her disappointment showed in her eyes and the droop of her mouth for just an instant before she schooled her features into a bland expression. "Of course not. Is everythin' okay? It's not one of your -" She hesitated for a split second, wracking her brain. She knew the D.D.A. had children, and she thought they were both girls, but it was better to be safe than sorry. " - Your kids?" she finished lamely. Shoot, she really wasn't very good at this business of making friends.

If the other woman noticed the awkward pause, she didn't let on. "Oh, no, nothing like that. Actually -" It was the attorney's turn to hesitate. "The Kazanjian case is closed. Captain Raydor just called to tell me the ink is dry on the plea deal we offered his brother, so he won't be bothering the State of California or anyone else for at least sixteen years. Probably a lot longer, since I can't see him getting out on good behavior. He's rather... volatile."

The former deputy chief wasn't thrilled by the new deal-making paradigm that her departure from the LAPD had ushered in, but putting a brutal murderer away was still good news. Andrea's eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and Brenda smiled politely as she said as much aloud: "That's good news."

The other blonde stepped further into the office. "The thing is that Sharon invited me to join them to celebrate. I've been spending almost as much time there as I have here for the last few months, but this is the first time I've been included in anything - social." Andrea cocked her head and offered a little shrug. "I feel like I should go. It could be a good opportunity to … cement working relationships."

"Oh," Brenda murmured, thinking, So it's Sharon now. How cozy. "Of course I don't mind. It probably is a good idea for you to go, like you said, especially since the captain can be -" She paused, one corner of her mouth twisting. "- Difficult."

Andrea's brows arched slightly as she blinked. "Do you think so?" she murmured in place of the wholesale agreement Brenda had expected. "I suppose it goes with the territory."

It was Brenda Leigh's turn to blink. Her vanity stung slightly. Despite occasional evidence to the contrary, the former deputy chief chose to believe that everyone with whom she worked liked her, at least deep down. Being lumped into the same category with Sharon "Darth" Raydor was hardly flattering. Aloud she said, "I'm sure Capt'n Raydor is just doin' what she needs to do to get the job done."

Andrea cocked her head. "My point exactly. You must know a thing or two about that."

Mollified, Brenda leaned back in her chair, giving her enough clearance to slide open a desk drawer and rummage among its contents. "How would you say things are goin' over at Major Crimes?"

The other woman folded her arms and cocked a hip inquisitively, leaning against the door. "You must have your ear to the ground."

Brenda offered another little shrug in response. She didn't, not in the way Andrea Hobbs assumed - not in the way she herself had assumed when she'd left her former job in a bittersweet blaze of mingled victory and defeat. Although she'd assured herself and her team that they would continue to see one another, and although she had meant the words, even at the moment of speaking them Brenda had been aware of their hollow ring. These people who had been her co-workers for the better part of a decade - Brenda truly considered them her friends. But without the bond of that work uniting them, it was hard to conceive of maintaining a relationship with any one of them. For one thing, she'd been their boss, and as such had always maintained a certain distance. For another - well, what would they talk about? She imagined listening to Provenza grouse about his woman troubles, or Tao talking about college tuition fees, or Sanchez - well, Sanchez really didn't talk much. It was hard to imagine, all the way around.

So no, she hadn't, despite her raging curiosity bordering on actual anxiety, called any of them up to ask how highly they would rate Captain Raydor's leadership capabilities, detective acumen, or overall job performance. If Will had still been Assistant Chief, she could have bought him a drink and persuaded him to allay her fears; but Major Crimes was no longer under the direct supervision of the oh-so-important newly-minted chief. Besides, she wasn't sure Will was even speaking to her. Which was silly, really. Her methods had been a little nontraditional, but she'd quite literally stopped Phillip Stroh in his tracks. And nobody had even sued her. You'd think Pope might be at least a little grateful.

"Surely Chief Howard keeps you informed," Hobbs elaborated, and Brenda focused on slowly unwrapping a Reese's cup, giving herself a moment to think. Was Andrea fishing? Her dark eyes narrowed slightly as she peeled back the crinkly brown paper. She doubted Fritz would have said anything. But on the other hand, he'd always been chatty with the blonde deputy D.A. (Fritz liked blondes.) Perhaps Raydor had asked him about Brenda, or maybe he had let something slip in front of the two most gossipy old women inside the LAPD, Andy Flynn and Louie Provenza.

The dissolution of her marriage wasn't, Brenda reminded herself, a state secret. Everyone she knew had to find out eventually. She would just prefer to have it happen magically, or perhaps by osmosis, without her having to suffer through the inevitable awkwardness of telling them. There was no good or easy way to do it, and she hated the resultant expressions of surprised or knowing sympathy.

This was as good an opportunity as any. She could say something like "I haven't talked to Fritz lately" and let Andrea fill in the details. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Brenda Leigh finished opening her chocolate and peanut butter delicacy and nibbled away an edge. "So, where are y'all goin' to celebrate?"

Andrea blinked again, as if perhaps she'd anticipated quite another kind of remark. "Ah - it starts with an M."

"Malloy's," Brenda supplied, nodding knowingly.

Andrea's straight hair shimmered as she shook her head. "No, it's that new place. Madeleine's? Something like that. I'm supposed to meet them at six," she added, glancing down at her watch.

Brenda shaped her mouth into what she hoped was a gracious smile. "Well then, you better get goin'," she said brightly. "Give my regards to everybody."

The D.D.A. straightened up. "I will. Have a good weekend, Brenda. See you Monday."

Brenda fluttered her fingers in a little wave, and then sat looking at the wood grain of her office door after the other woman had closed it. The office was quiet now, and suddenly felt very empty. Sitting there, she felt empty too. It was only about 5:30, but she knew everyone else had already gone home for the day. The D.A.'s office didn't keep banker's hours, but to Brenda's way of thinking they might as well have. She missed the erratic schedule and controlled chaos of the police department, as well as the whole mentality. On a Friday evening in Major Crimes, even if they hadn't been working a big flashy homicide, Brenda would've been able to count on the quiet presence of at least one of her boys to keep her company, maybe Tao tinkering with something or Provenza finishing up a crossword at his desk. They were cops; they didn't punch a time clock and run home to dinner or off to pilates class. Day or night, the Murder Room retained the easy, familiar feel of a home away from home.

Brenda had always felt more at home in the Murder Room than she had in her actual home, something she hadn't appreciated until she'd abruptly found herself with so much home-time on her hands.

At least so far, her new office didn't provide that sense of ease and security, perhaps because she didn't feel the same possessiveness, the same ownership of all she surveyed. Back at Major Crimes, Brenda Leigh had sat at her desk and felt like the monarch was in her castle and all was well throughout her personal dominion.

And all had been well, ultimately. She'd been right to believe that no one on her team would have willfully betrayed her. Her mouth drooped as she shook her head. Poor David. She was glad to have him here with her, a familiar face in the crowd; but more than just their working relationship had changed with their new positions. Gabriel himself had been altered by his experience, presenting his new co-workers with a quieter, more somber, more guarded version of the man Brenda had known so long.

She swallowed the last of the candy and shoved her feet back into the pumps she had discarded under her desk. Brenda had never been overly sentimental, and there was no point getting all nostalgic now for a place that didn't exist any more. A new regime was firmly entrenched in her Murder Room. The Queen had been deposed; all hail the Wicked Witch.

Despite the bitter tone of her thoughts, it was with something akin to exasperated affection that Brenda rolled her eyes and began to gather her things, tossing them into her voluminous black tote. How very like Captain Raydor to appoint a precise time for a post-case celebration, as if she were giving a state dinner for royalty rather than buying her colleagues a few rounds.

A dinner for royalty. Now there was a thought.

The former queen of Major Crimes paused for a second, wheels turning. She bit her lip, and then allowed it to creep upward into a smile. What could it hurt if she dropped by the-new-place-whose-name-started-with-M for a drink? True, she hadn't been invited, but it was a celebration. The more the merrier, right? She knew there had been no Special Ops involvement in the Kazanjian investigation, so there was no danger of running into her ex-husband. It was the perfect opportunity to suss out the state of affairs at Major Crimes. As years of experience had taught Brenda Leigh, when she was curious about something, it was always best just to investigate it herself, in person. It was the only way of making sure the job got done right.

2\. running in the shadows

Captain Sharon Raydor was feeling pretty good, and it had little to do with the glass of excellent Zinfandel she was currently sipping. From her vantage point at the far end, she looked down the long wooden table at her animated colleagues, most of them in varying stages of intoxication. It was Andy Flynn, though, sober as a judge at the opposite end of the table, who caught her eye and nodded, smiling slightly as he lifted his Perrier in a little toast. His dark eyes were warm, even affectionate. Sharon's sense of personal and professional well-being increased. She knew she was still a long way from winning any popularity contests, but after the silent opposition mingled with occasional outbursts of open hostility she had faced from everyone at this table except neutral Andrea Hobbs and self-interested Amy Sykes since taking the reins in their division, grudging approbation was almost as sweet as having roses thrown at her Manolo-encased feet.

It was hard to make yourself visible in the shadow of a giant, even when said giant stood 5'4" and weighed 105 pounds soaking wet. Viewing the situation as dispassionately as she knew how, the captain understood all Brenda Leigh Johnson had done to earn the fierce loyalty of her detectives. Raydor was no doe-eyed ingenue; she'd been aware that her long tenure in Internal Affairs insured that they would perceive her as an outsider, and she'd quickly realized that all her efforts over that last year to keep the Major Crimes ship from sinking like the Lusitania had done little to soften the men's collective heart. Never mind that she had managed to save Brenda from legal ignominy and root out the leak. Sharon had also investigated each of the men who now worked under her, leaving more than a few ruffled feathers. And then Stroh had reappeared and Brenda Leigh had quit before she could be fired - something that had nothing to do with Raydor, and yet when the captain had taken her place, she'd sensed that they blamed her, at least a little, however unfairly, for the removal of their beloved blonde leader. She knew Sanchez especially thought Brenda had deserved a medal, not the boot.

Add to all that Assistant Chief Russell Taylor's diabolically bad timing (Sharon still couldn't decide whether the man wanted to see her sink or swim, or whether perhaps he simply didn't care either way, as long as her potential flailing provided him with some amusement and didn't put him on the hot seat) and the loyalty the rest of the squad felt toward that sharp thorn in Raydor's side, Lieutenant Provenza, and - Suffice it to say that the job of asserting her authority while keeping things running smoothly had not been an easy one. It still wasn't, but day by day the captain felt a little less like she was barely keeping her head above water, liable to be swamped at any minute by an unexpected wave.

Sharon sat back, resting her hands lightly upon the table, and resolved not to over-think it. Everyone seemed to be enjoying this outing, not merely because the captain was footing the bill, and she intended to do the same. Going out for a meal after wrapping up an important investigation had been standard procedure in her former life, but this was a milestone of sorts: the first time Sharon had been bold enough to suggest such a plan to her new colleagues, because she was confident they wouldn't turn her down flat and leave her facing the frightening prospect of an evening of girl talk with a boozy Detective Sykes. A few months ago, Provenza wouldn't have dignified the invitation with any response other than a snort of disgust, and Flynn would probably have said he had to wash his hair.

As a waiter brought their shared starters - a towering platter of calamari, a fig and prosciutto torte, and a plate of assorted crostini - to the table, Sharon felt Hobbs's hand brush her elbow, bare now that she had removed the black blazer she'd paired with the gray wool dress for the work day. "Captain, another glass of wine?" the other woman asked, and Sharon looked down with mild surprise to see that her glass was empty.

"Just one more," the brunette agreed. "But please call me Sharon. Unless you would prefer that I call you Deputy D.A. Hobbs."

The D.A.'s lip lifted in a one-sided smile. "No, Andrea will do," she replied, her eyes meeting Sharon's for a couple of beats before she looked away, lifting a hand to signal the departing waiter. Sharon just had time to register how close the younger woman was sitting, close enough that the captain had been able to feel Andrea's breath on her face, before she became aware that Amy, who sat across the table with a martini glass cradled in one hand, was eyeing them narrowly. A knowing smile graced her model-worthy features. Raydor breathed out, relieved, when Sanchez passed Sykes the calamari, distracting her.

How many Manhattans had Hobbs downed in the last thirty-five minutes? Surreptitiously, she cast a sidelong glance at the contents of the lawyer's glass. It was still a third full. Perhaps Detective Sykes was the inebriated one. Raydor briefly considered suggesting her youngest detective devote more scrutiny to her caseload and less to her colleagues.

Where she had placed it as unobtrusively as possible beside her silverware, Sharon's phone lit up and began to vibrate, displaying Rusty's name. "Excuse me," she murmured, sliding off the bench seat, and excusing herself to a quiet alcove behind the bar to ascertain that her teenage ward was not in imminent peril.

3\. players only love you when they're playing

The M-name of the bar turned out to be Magdalen, not Madeleine's, which was why it had taken Brenda so long to locate it, and then she'd found herself on a one-way street going in the opposite direction to the one she'd wanted to go. So much for the wonders of GPS - or maybe she shouldn't have bought the model that was on clearance. At any rate, the predominance of Crown Vics in the parking lot assured Brenda that she was at last in the right place.

Pulling into a spot beside a blue Volvo, she paused long enough to tighten the belt of her pink trench coat against the sharp nip in the February air, and then hooked the strap of her purse over her elbow and stepped out onto the pavement. As she clip-clopped briskly up to the entrance, Brenda reflected that the stucco building with its bright blue and white-tiled window boxes didn't look much like a cop bar, but then she'd lived long enough to know that plenty of places didn't look like what they were. Plenty of people, too.

As soon as she crossed the threshold and her gaze swept over the cheerful glow of light emanating from brass sconces and the polished wood of the handful of picnic-style tables, Brenda realized she'd made a mistake. This wasn't a bar at all, but a restaurant. A nice but unpretentious one, from the looks of it.

That meant Brenda had made another mistake, too. She shouldn't have come. Willie Rae, God rest her soul, would have been appalled at the idea of her daughter showing up uninvited to a dinner party. Brenda was a little appalled herself, but mostly just embarrassed.

The restaurant was what a reviewer would have called "intimate." Brenda Leigh had no opportunity to extricate herself from her faux pas by melting unseen into the night from whence she had emerged. She was only a few feet from the table around which her former colleagues were gathered, and they saw her as soon as she stepped inside, her bright coat glowing like a beacon.

It was Sanchez who spoke first, his mouth rounding with surprise. "Chief!" he exclaimed, pleasure and dismay warring on his countenance.

"Chief! What're you doing here?" Provenza asked at the same time as Flynn offered, "Pull up a - well, a bench."

"Oh, no, I just, ah, came by to say hi. And congratulations." She felt herself flush as she met Andrea's gaze. "D.D.A. Hobbs told me where y'all would be, and I was, uh, passin' by," she finished lamely, shamefaced.

"Chief," interjected another voice, its low, clear tone and careful articulation inimitable. "Brenda. What a surprise."

The even tenor of Sharon's voice, with its lack of inflection, gave nothing away; but when Brenda Leigh met her cool green eyes, the woman's unmoved expression did, at least to someone who had spent as much time studying its nuances as the blonde investigator had. The captain was not pleased.

"Hey, Captain Raydor," she replied with false heartiness. "Like I said, I just dropped by to say hi on my way home, so I'll be goin'. Great to see everybody."

"You've barely even said hello," Sanchez protested, looking as if he intended to get up and then realizing he was trapped by the bench. "You can't leave yet."

"Let me buy you a drink." Andy signaled the bartender and mouthed "Merlot." Under Sharon Raydor's unwavering gaze, Brenda felt her face grow hotter and hotter.

"Of course, you must stay," Raydor said, still smiling that smile that didn't reach her eyes as she stood near Provenza, studying Brenda above everyone else's heads. She was wearing smoky brown eye shadow that made those eyes, without the screen of her glasses, look almost as dark as Brenda's. The blonde found herself staring into them, fascinated, as if Sharon were a polite but deadly snake. The way she said 'you must stay,' it sounded less like an invitation, more like a command. Brenda felt a quick, hot stab of anger and shame. Who did Raydor think she was to be giving Brenda orders, no matter how politely, and reminding her she was no longer a superior officer, no longer much of anything other than a pitiful, ill-mannered party crasher?

"We can't pull up a chair," the captain continued, "but no one will mind making room."

In the captain's position, Brenda knew she would have sent an uninvited guest like herself packing, and as Brenda gravitated toward the wedge of open real estate at the end of one bench - it was, mercifully, next to Andrea, who was looking an awful lot like the only port in a storm - she felt her hackles rise with an irritating blend of frustration and humility. Sharon Raydor was again doing what she had always done from the very beginning of their acquaintance: egging Brenda on with her scrupulous politeness to exhibit herself in the worst light, to be on her worst behavior while the captain was on her best. Sharon was, in a word, out-classing Brenda Leigh. The younger woman sank down onto the bench and took a healthy gulp of the Merlot Andy had ordered for her, relieved beyond words that it had appeared so quickly.

Rounding the end of the table, Raydor loomed over her shoulder and cleared her throat. "That was my seat," the older woman murmured, and Brenda automatically twisted to meet her gaze, "and that is my wine. Would you prefer Zinfandel to Merlot?"

Brenda felt like Goldilocks. And who's been sleeping in my bed? she thought dizzily, squeezing as far down the bench as she could to make room for the captain, ending up practically in poor Andrea's lap. Wasn't Sharon Raydor supposed to be the interloper sleeping in her bed, sitting in her chair? Brenda did not like the sensation of the other woman looming over her. She did not like looking down at the wine glass she still clutched and realizing she'd placed her own mouth right over the imprint of Sharon's neutral lipstick. She didn't like the feeling of being the interloper, of not being in charge, at Major Crimes or anywhere else.

She met Sharon's look of mild challenge with a sickly smile. "Merlot's fine. Sorry."

Sharon blinked, her lips tightening rather than relaxing as she smiled, and made a shooing motion with her hand. "The other way, please."

Officially humiliated, Brenda slid back down the bench - she was going to get splinters in her bottom - to the very end. Although she stayed facing forward, she took grim pleasure in observing from the corner of her eye as Sharon straddled the bench, twisting and turning to avoid flashing anyone, and melted into the sliver of space separating Brenda from Hobbs, who looked pleased. The captain yanked her dress down over her thighs before smoothing her napkin over her lap. When she held out her hand without looking, Brenda placed the wine glass in it; and suddenly the ridiculousness of the whole situation struck the ex-chief, and she had to hold back a titter. As quickly as it had flooded in, her anger receded.

There was a momentary awkward lull as everyone on Brenda and Raydor's side of the table rearranged, shifting persons and plates and cutlery. A server brought over a glass of Merlot, for real this time, and placed it between the two women. Brenda saw the brunette eyeing it, and half expected the other woman to hoist the glass and take a swig. She didn't, of course, and conversation gradually began to flow again.

It just figured, Brenda reflected, craning her neck to peer down the table at Lieutenant Tao and Buzz, whom she could barely even glimpse. After all that rigamarole, she was isolated down here at the end of the table, too far away even to talk to anyone besides Sharon or the young officer across the table, whose name she didn't know.

As if on cue, said young officer leaned forward, meeting Brenda's gaze and smiling. "Deputy Chief Johnson," she said, her tone bright. "I'm Amy Sykes, Detective Amy Sykes. I've always admired your work. It's a pleasure and an honor to meet you, ma'am."

As Brenda smiled, caught slightly off guard, and returned the greeting, she heard Lieutenant Provenza rumble something from his end of the table. It sounded like "ass-kisser." More loudly, for the benefit of everyone's ears, he added, "Chief Johnson is retired, Sykes. She can't get you a promotion, so lay off."

Sykes batted her eyelashes, unfazed. "Your record for obtaining voluntary confessions is unsurpassed," she continued. "I'd love it if you could share some of your valuable insights."

"Ye gods," Provenza moaned, and Brenda detected a slight movement: Raydor catching Skyes's eye and compressing her lips, along with the barest shake of her head. Chastened, Sykes more softly added, "Maybe we could have coffee sometime," and then trained her attention on her appetizer. Well. Captain Raydor had at least one team member following her orders without question.

They would all be following her orders, whether they liked it or not, because they were professionals, and because Raydor was... Raydor.

Despite the undercurrent of animosity coursing between them tonight, Brenda Leigh Johnson did not dislike Sharon Raydor as she once had. Truth be told, she didn't dislike her at all. But apparently that was no longer mutual.

It was hardly a surprise. Knowing what kind of response she was likely to get was what had kept Brenda from picking up the phone and calling Sharon herself to check in on the progress of events at Major Crimes.

When Sharon had become a sounding-board for Brenda during what turned out to be the chief's last several months at the LAPD, Brenda had initially assumed the older woman had come to fulfill that role by default. She was virtually always there, operating with Brenda's team, but not within that team. While the hunt for the leak was being carried out, that separation had seemed like an attractive quality; and while Brenda outranked the captain, she wasn't Sharon's superior officer (as much as she sometimes wished otherwise). On some level Brenda Leigh had known she could trust Raydor. Whatever her faults, the woman oozed integrity - she actually believed in all those rules she was so fired up about making everybody else follow.

And yet there was more to the equation. From being a nuisance, Sharon's near-constant presence had become a comfort, at times even a balm. The woman's low, even voice could be downright soothing, and there was a wisdom in her eyes, a suggestion of warmth in the laugh-lines bracketing her mouth and those green eyes (not that Brenda had ever seen her laugh, really laugh) that indicated a genuine ability to care, perhaps even to nurture. She found herself turning to Sharon for advice, absorbing her clear-eyed common sense, and realizing that beneath her little suits and high heels and notebooks there was almost certainly a good-humored, keenly intelligent, kind woman who didn't take herself too seriously. She had never asked the captain any personal questions or made any overtures beyond those of basic professional respect, but on the rare occasions when Sharon mentioned something about her life outside the LAPD - the existence of children, parents, religious beliefs, a whole history - Brenda found herself mildly fascinated. At first it had been as if a piece of office furniture or a file folder, something she thought of as existing only at work, had struck up a conversation about traffic or counting calories; but later it had been more like glimpsing the dark side of the moon: you were relieved to know for sure that it was there, but content to let it remain mysterious.

Knowledge of those dark-side-of-the-moon qualities existing in Sharon Raydor that had made Brenda think the captain would have at least a fighting chance in Major Crimes. Surely Raydor was capable of thinking outside the box when she needed to. At the very least, her box had to be bigger than most people realized.

Brenda became persuaded that Sharon had, albeit reluctantly, grown to like her, and that was flattering. No, more than that: it was a kind of validation, knowing that Sharon was in there swinging for her not just because her job dictated it but because she genuinely felt it was the right thing to do. Sharon seemed always to do what she thought was right.

Brenda hadn't recommended the captain for her former job. For one thing, she hadn't been asked, not that that had ever stopped her from airing an opinion before. She had been a little torn by her loyalty to Lieutenant Provenza (although she knew he wouldn't be left in charge for long), and she hadn't wanted to think about anyone filling her shoes. But when Will had articulated the need to bring in someone from the outside who already had a working knowledge of the division, someone who understood the work they did and how they did it and would still be capable of implementing major changes, Brenda had drawled, "I suppose there's only one person who fits that description."

Brenda reached for her wine glass, intending to drink deeply, and accidentally pressed her arm against the captain's. Sharon instinctively turned to face her, her eyes widening, and Brenda's cheeks flushed. She hoped anyone observing would blame it on the wine. "S-sorry," the blonde stammered. Her arm tingled.

Raydor stiffened slightly and swallowed. "It's quite all right," she reassured, and turned back to her dinner. Brenda noted that she pressed her left arm tightly into her body in order to avoid further contact.

Brenda looked down at her shrimp and polenta. Damn Phillip Stroh. This was all his fault, for existing, and for being such a sorry piece of work, and especially for trying to kill Brenda and Rusty Beck in her kitchen on an otherwise innocuous week night. And maybe it was a little bit her mama's fault too, for dying like that, without so much as a by-your-leave. It was Fritz's fault, for looking at Brenda with his big, sad eyes filled with resignation, and David Gabriel's fault for being gullible and having such horrible taste in women. It was Sharon Raydor's fault for the way she'd laid her hand on Brenda's arm, her soft eyes filled with sympathy; and it was Brenda's own fault for having some sort of psychotic break or midlife crisis or something.

It was everyone's fault, and it was just terrible timing. That was the only explanation for the way Brenda Leigh had behaved the last time she'd seen Sharon in person, when Stroh's blood had been pooling on the tile floor in the kitchen and a young officer had been stringing up crime scene tape in the multi-colored glow of lights from the ambulance and police cruiser. Suddenly Sharon had just been there, and somehow Brenda had found herself alone in her own bathroom with the captain, vibrating with tension and unspent adrenaline while Sharon helped her wash Rusty's blood from her hands and arms. Brenda had looked at their reflection in the mirror over the sink. She had taken in the serious furrow of Sharon's brow and the way her smooth brown hair fell over her shoulders as she bent her head toward the blonde's, and the contact of her hands firmly but gently rubbing Brenda's skin beneath the flow of warm water. Brenda had sucked in a shuddering breath, smelling the metallic tang of blood and the chardonnay on Sharon's breath, and she had just gone crazy. That was why she'd done it - why she'd abruptly lifted her wet hands to cup the older woman's face, staining her cheeks a rusty pink, looked directly into green eyes, wide and naked without their glasses, for the space of several heartbeats before she had brought their lips together and kissed Sharon Raydor's stunned, slack mouth.

That was the only explanation for why it had felt so right, like it was exactly what Brenda had needed in that moment. It had to be why Sharon had known that and accepted it; she hadn't pulled away. Her lips had shaped themselves to Brenda's and the captain had kissed her back, softly, tenderly, with infinite patience while the running water thundered down the drain.

And then a door had slammed, and there were voices in the hall, and Sharon had stepped away and reached for a towel, using it to dry her own face before handing it to Brenda. "Come on, now," she'd said. "Your detectives are here, Chief. We have to work." There had been no reproof in her voice, no visible embarrassment on her face, and Brenda wasn't sure she'd ever before been so grateful to feel another person's presence.

And then... and then everything had just been a mess, and Brenda had dealt with it by resolving to start what was supposed to be a new phase of her life. Hah. That had just gone real well, hadn't it?

They hadn't talked about it, of course, and Brenda hadn't felt that they needed to, until one day she realized she couldn't pick up the phone and call the captain and ask about her new job and all the old boys. Brenda couldn't explain that inability. She hadn't expected it, this invisible, inexplicable barrier, as if Sharon Raydor now had a force-field surrounding her and all she did.

Brenda stabbed violently at a defenseless shrimp. This was probably irony, huh? She'd thought leaving Major Crimes would help make her life more manageable, whereas all she felt now was out of control. Instead of holding things together, her departure from the LAPD had just accelerated the pace at which everything came apart. It turned out that Major Crimes had been her centrifugal force.

The woman next to her shifted, and Brenda felt her concerned, speculative gaze on the crown of her bent blonde head. "Chief?" Sharon asked, and then, the way she had that other night in the bathroom, "Brenda?"

Brenda's head snapped up, her jaw tightening with determination, and the older woman flinched. Good, she thought. Aloud she said, "We need to talk."

Sharon's eyes widened before narrowing in contemplation as she cocked her head. "Yes," she agreed slowly after an uncomfortably long pause, and gestured toward the bar. "I believe we do. Shall we?"


	2. cold, pale shadow (she's a dragon)

1.

Brenda scrambled up from the bench to follow Sharon to the bar, which was in full view of everyone at the table. “You really think this is the best place to do this?” she hissed when Sharon turned back, one elbow casually propped on the wood surface.

Sharon’s brows arched toward her hairline. “Would you prefer the ladies’ room?” she asked, and Brenda frowned. Oh, that woman.

Sharon ordered sparkling water, and Brenda defiantly ordered another glass of Merlot. “Everyone’s lookin’,” she said as the older woman squeezed her sliver of lime and took a sip.

Sharon smirked. “I don’t think there’s anything of particular interest to see, do you? Or were you planning to start a hair-pulling catfight?”

Brenda’s lips thinned. “Over what?”

“Territorial rights, I assume.” Sharon faced fully forward, propping her other elbow on the bar, and Brenda snapped her gaze up from the other woman’s posterior, which was lovingly outlined by fine wool fabric. For heaven’s sake, she thought uneasily. She’d never looked at the captain like that when they’d worked together, so why had she started now? She supposed it was the residual effect of that kiss, the unwonted intimacy. It seemed like that one spontaneous act was causing her no end of trouble -- and yet Brenda wasn’t really sorry, somehow. 

“Is that what you wanna talk about?” she asked.

“What else?” Sharon kept returning question for question, being evasive. She knew what else, surely.

But did Brenda actually want to talk about it, about the kiss? Couldn’t they just let it be?

“I’m not sorry,” the younger woman blurted.

Raydor took a moment to digest the pronouncement. “I would have preferred it if you’d simply dropped by the Murder Room during working hours, but it is still a relatively free country.” Relieved, Brenda did not correct Sharon’s assumption. “It’s natural for you to be curious about the progress of things in your absence. Severing those ties must have been very difficult for you.”

“It has been.” Brenda took a sip of her wine and smacked her lips, more comfortable on this footing. “More difficult than I anticipated. I didn’t know y’all were havin’ a formal dinner.”

Sharon's smile was warmer this time. “It’s hardly formal.”

“More formal than beer and stale pretzels at Malloy’s,” Brenda rejoined. “It’s -- nice. Everybody seems to be havin’ a good time.” She cocked her head, studying the captain. “Did I ruin your good time, Sharon?”

The warmth leeched from her smile. “I’m not insecure enough to be threatened by your presence, Brenda.”

Brenda blinked, taken aback by Sharon’s bluntness. She hadn’t barged in here tonight with the intent of threatening the other woman’s position of authority or doing anything to undermine her command... although she had just been thinking of herself as the queen of Major Crimes. And while Sharon’s line was a good one and the brunette probably half believed it herself, Brenda wasn’t convinced. Of course Sharon was at least a little threatened by Brenda’s sudden reappearance. In her position, Brenda would have felt the same -- and she wouldn’t have let on either. She smiled at the captain, acknowledging their similarities.

“Well, good,” she replied, guileless. “So how is everythin’ goin’?”

Raydor pursed her lips. “I’d say it’s going pretty well, since we did just put a violent sociopath behind bars this afternoon.”

That rankled a little, and Brenda couldn’t resist pointing out, “You gave him a deal.”

The captain smiled at a private joke before sharing with the class. “Officers of the Los Angeles Police Department do not have the legal authority to make deals. However, employees of the District Attorney’s Office do. So it might be more appropriate to say you gave Mark Kazanjian a deal -- Brenda.” 

Brenda scowled. “I suppose that’s the best you can do if you can’t get confessions.”

“We’re getting convictions,” Sharon replied precisely, unruffled. “We are sending criminals to prison with no legal recourse to appeal, and saving the city millions of dollars.”

Sharon and Brenda both jumped as a meaty hand descended upon each of their shoulders. “You ladies aren’t going to stay over here all night, are you?” Provenza asked, looking at both women in turn. “Flynn’s got a betting pool going on when the hair-pulling will start.”

The look Sharon shot Brenda telegraphed, I told you so. “It is getting late,” the captain said aloud. “Rusty has a biology test tomorrow, and I promised to help him study. I need to get going. Let me just tell everyone good night. And thank you especially, lieutenant, for all your hard work, and for coming tonight.” 

Brenda reflected that Provenza’s expression of grumpy gratification was one she hadn't seen before, and that gave her a little pang. Did Raydor’s expressions of appreciation mean more than hers had? Surely not. Provenza didn’t even like the captain. But then, maybe that was a part of it.

Brenda stood at the older man’s elbow as they watched the captain bid her adieux. Sharon had lost weight, the blonde’s practiced eye noted, and she looked tired. Perhaps the new job was taking its toll on the older woman, but she hardly appeared to be beaten down by it. Brenda couldn’t say for sure how she felt about that. It wasn’t that she wanted Sharon Raydor to fail; she just didn’t particularly want anyone other than herself to succeed. Major Crimes had been created for Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson, and it was supposed to belong to her and no one else.

But Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson no longer existed.

She was still shy of fifty. Wasn’t that too young for retirement? And wasn’t retirement supposed to involve less paperwork?

“Rushin’ off to help Rusty with his homework,” Brenda commented to Provenza. “How maternal. I guess he’ll be makin’ an A.”

Provenza looked askance. “Sharon seems to have taken that boy to raise. And believe me, chief, if anyone ever needed a little mothering, it’s Rusty Beck.”

Brenda’s irritation spiked along with that discomfiting sense of shame. She truly hadn’t meant to sound so snide. But "Sharon" again, she thought. It was an epidemic. 

Tao was making his way over. “I’ve gotta get going too. Good to see you, chief. Don’t be a stranger.”

Brenda smiled hollowly at the tall bald man, and observed as he accompanied Raydor and Andrea to the entrance and held the door for them. Hobbs looked Brenda’s way and smiled slightly, but then Sharon said something to her and the D.D.A. looked away. Brenda was surprised that the captain would accept such a courtesy from one of her lieutenants. Shouldn’t she be waving her feminist manifesto instead?

Brenda bit her lip and shot Provenza a sidelong glance. With the captain gone, it would be like having the band back together -- wouldn’t it? They could all relax, let their hair down, and Brenda could finally get the inside scoop on how things were really going at Major Crimes. No way was it all happy families.

So how come the ex-chief now felt more, rather than less, uncomfortable? The idea of needing Sharon Raydor to mediate between her and her former detectives was nothing short of absurd. She caught Provenza in the act of darting her a sidelong glance identical to the one she’d been giving him, and their gazes collided.

“Well,” she said too brightly, and the lieutenant jammed his hands into his pockets. He tilted his head toward the table, where Buzz was standing and shrugging into his lightweight jacket.

“Looks like the party’s breaking up.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s been a long day for everybody,” Brenda offered in that same bright tone. She tipped the remaining contents of the wine glass down her throat and placed the empty vessel on the bar. “I oughta get goin’ myself.”

At the table, Sykes sat up straighter, planting her elbows on either side of her glass. “Hey, you guys aren’t leaving yet, are you?” she asked. “It’s early.”

Sanchez didn’t speak, but raised his eyebrows at the female detective in a manner that seemed to indicate he’d be happy to continue the party somewhere more private.

“You need your beauty sleep, Amy.” Flynn stood as well, slinging his blazer over one shoulder as if he were posing for GQ. “Julio, you can give the old man a ride. I’m off the clock.”

“Who’re you callin’ old?” Provenza grumbled. The familiar banter pinched sharply at Brenda Leigh. Some naive, childlike part of her had expected everything to be different without her, even as she had known they would carry on, a well-oiled machine.

As the members of her former squad told Brenda goodbye and Amy Sykes fawned over her a little, Brenda couldn’t help absorbing their mingled feelings of unfeigned warmth at her presence and relief that she was on the verge of departing. She made no half-hearted promises to see each other soon.

Sliding behind the wheel of her car, her coat hugged tightly to her body against the chill and one hand lifted in a wave at Sanchez and Provenza, Brenda again told herself that she should never have come here tonight. It had been more than bad manners; it was downright depressing. She should have gone home to her half-unpacked condo and leftover take-out and DVR’ed episode of General Hospital. Because instead of rekindling the easy camaraderie and flickers of genuine intimacy she had shared with these men and women, being again in their presence had made Brenda Leigh feel further away than at any other time since she’d last walked out of the Murder Room.

2.

“... and ended up in the Hollywood Hills. I don’t think she drove herself to another crime scene for about three years!” Andy finished, laughing heartily. Provenza slapped his spread thighs.

“You’re exaggerating, Andy. It was more like two and a half,” Tao put in, and Sharon could hear the grin in his voice.

“Remember when she made that lowlife pimp cry by threatening to tell his mother on him?” Flynn continued fondly.

“Or the time she told that little snot with a flesh wound that he was making a deathbed confession,” Provenza piped up.

“Or that preppy kid who made a run for the border, thinking it was going to be all tequila and eternal spring break.” Raydor could clearly envision the smile on Sanchez’s somber face. “I thought one day she would get me to confess.”

“I could pull up that clip on YouTube,” Buzz volunteered. “You know, the one of Chief Johnson being attacked by that crazy bride?”

Provenza sighed. “Those were the days.”

Captain Raydor had heard enough. She quickly crossed to the doorway of her private office and addressed the Murder Room at large. “Those may have been the days, but this is today. Don’t you have anything better to be doing?" She injected a note of levity into the words, but knew no one was buying. "Lieutenant Tao, Detective Sanchez -- you have a court appearance in two hours,” she finished, looking up at the wall clock. “I trust you’re prepared.”

Sanchez met her eyes, stone-faced. “Of course, captain.”

“Ready to go,” Tao agreed, turning back to his computer. Raydor pretended not to see the put-upon expressions on their faces or to know that Provenza indulged in a good eye-roll the second he spun his chair around.

It was boredom, she told herself as she walked back to her desk. Boredom, plain and simple. None of them had ended up in Major Crimes because they possessed a natural aptitude for bureaucracy, and when they experienced a periodic lull between new investigations, it was natural for them to chafe at their confines. It had nothing to do with Brenda Johnson’s surprise resurfacing Friday night. And Sharon’s insistence that they use this time productively and get their reports finished was not a result of her insecurity. She wasn’t sucking on sour grapes, no matter what her subordinates might think.

And yet...

Sharon caught sight of her own brooding countenance, reflected back at her from her computer monitor. She jostled the mouse, deactivating the screen saver, and the report she’d been working on reappeared. The typed characters marched neatly across the screen, reassuringly solid and even, the black strokes on the white background soothing. All the blanks were filled in, the accompanying sentences clear and cogent. The captain knew from long years of practice that she was doing everything exactly right.

She knew, too, that doing it all exactly right wasn’t always exactly right, not in this job. There were always chances, coincidences, the grating of personalities, plain bad luck. She couldn’t guarantee the outcome of an investigation any more than she could guarantee tomorrow’s weather. You could dot all the i’s, cross the t’s, tick all the appropriate boxes, and still you just had to do the best you could and hope you’d get the right outcome and that one of your detectives wouldn’t get her head bashed in in the process.

Neither could she make them like her, those men and the one woman sitting in the Murder Room. All she could do was adhere to her own ethics and standards, her own code of conduct; she could show them her diligence and her willingness to learn, to use her own expertise and benefit from theirs. So perhaps they didn’t like her, but they were growing to respect her. Sharon would have been lying if she’d said she didn’t feel a sense of validation and personal pride because of that. She had worked damn hard to earn that respect.

Surely one petite, drawling blonde who gulped down Merlot like it was water couldn’t jeopardize that. Not all those months of hard work in a couple of hours.

Still, Brenda’s unexpected cameo and the affectionate reminiscences of her former team had left the captain feeling edgy and a little raw. She needed to be on her guard, she admonished herself, and she needed to do it while keeping her uneasiness to herself. If she seemed to be comparing herself to the ex-deputy chief, that would invite her division to do the same, and that was one of the last things the captain wanted. It wasn’t because Raydor felt inferior to the other woman; she hadn’t gotten where she was, in her career or in life in general, by giving feelings of inferiority the time of day. But Sharon had no desire to be a second Brenda Leigh Johnson -- a task at which she would have been fore-doomed to fail, given that she was much more suited to be a first Sharon Raydor. Her approach, tactics, managerial style, personality: all were quite different from Brenda’s.

Sharon sighed. This morning, with too much time on her hands and the titters of her subordinates in her ears, she couldn’t wholly shake the feeling that she was nothing but an older, paler, less fun version of the deputy chief. (Since when was police work supposed to be fun?) She shook herself instead and readjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. There was only one surefire cure for her feelings of inadequacy, she told herself. Work.

She was immersed when her door, already ajar, swung open without even a rap for the sake of politeness. “Captain Raydor,” greeted Chief Taylor, pulling the door to behind him. “Don’t get up -- yet.”

She lowered herself from the half-standing position she had automatically assumed at the sight of her commanding officer (answering directly to Russell Taylor -- there was a perk she could have lived without) and removed her glasses. “What can I do for you, chief?”

The man took the seat across from her and crossed one shiny shoe over the opposite knee. “Your team’s about to roll out, but first you need to look at these.”

Raydor reached for the three file folders he extended and pursed her lips inquisitively. At his nod, she flipped the top one open and quickly perused its contents. “Rape,” she said, and then turned her attention to the second folder. “Serial rapes?”

The chief regarded her steadily, so she went back to her reading. Her expression didn’t alter as she took up the third file. After a moment she said, “I see.”

Taylor leaned forward. “I hope you do. Because once you reveal the details of this to Team Johnson out there --”

Her jaw tightened the tiniest bit at that moniker, but she only said, “Phillip Stroh isn't assaulting these women from lock-up.”

“The similarities in the M.O. are striking to anyone familiar with Stroh’s handiwork,” the chief pointed out unnecessarily.

“Well, exactly. Anyone who’s as familiar as we are. We are seeing this through the lens of Phillip Stroh.” Raydor gestured with the folders for emphasis. “But I’m quite confident that Phillip Stroh is not the only rapist ever to work with a partner in the greater Los Angeles area. Neither, unfortunate as it is, is he the only one ever to have buried a body in a public park. We will consider all possibilities.”

Taylor shrugged. “Is that what you’re gonna tell your detectives?”

Sharon stood up, scooping the folders into her arms. “I won’t have to tell them,” she replied with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. “They’re all professional, seasoned officers. They’ll draw the same conclusion for themselves.”

3.

Sharon jerked to consciousness, grumbling inarticulately, when her phone burred. Eyes still closed, she fished it out from between her body and the sofa cushion, and then forced her eyelids apart -- she could just feel that her mascara was smeared -- and squinted at the small screen, which was too bright in contrast to the darkness of her living room.

For a couple of seconds, before her sleep-drugged brain had time to catch up, the text from Rusty only confused her further: Are you hungry? Still on autopilot, she began to type out a response, and then sat up straight, swinging one leg to the floor, and looked around. She sensed more than saw the boy lurking between the living room and the hallway.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, licking her lips and brushing her hair back from her forehead. Her voice was slightly rough. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven,” he replied, tentative. “I didn’t want to wake you up, but, uh --”

“I’m sorry.” Reaching over, she switched on the lamp, and Rusty took that as his cue to approach. “You must be starving. We can have a pizza if you order it.” 

“I could make something,” he volunteered with one of those bursts of people-pleasing eagerness that tugged at Sharon’s heart. As sweet as his efforts to do for her were, she almost wished he would take his circumstances a little more for granted like a ‘normal’ teenage boy. She worried that he still didn’t feel totally at home, totally at ease.

“You can make a salad to go with the pizza,” she offered in compromise, her lips twitching into a slight smile as she took in the battered gray t-shirt he had paired with his school khakis. His wardrobe still consisted largely of the few items he’d brought stuffed into his backpack, and not because Sharon hadn’t offered to buy him new clothes. “Get whatever toppings you want. I’ll only eat a piece or two.”

He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Anchovies?”

She sniffed. “If you think you’ve got what it takes to convince me you enjoy eating anchovies, buddy, then by all means.”

“I’m good at pretending I enjoy having all kinds of gross things in my mouth,” he muttered in response, and she exclaimed, “Rusty!”

His eyes dropped and he looked at the toes of his sneakers, abashed. “No anchovies. Is pineapple cool?”

She tilted her head in agreement, squeezing a throw pillow as she allowed herself a few seconds to fret about the teenager’s well-being while he phoned in their order. If only she could convince him to see a counselor --

“Did you get a new case today?” he asked quietly, chastened. He tossed his limber body down in one of the armchairs. She nodded. “Is it a bad one?”

Her eyes met his. “It’s a Major Crime, so by definition it’s a bad one.”

“But--” he began, and then swallowed the rest of his words, whether because he didn’t want to pry or he’d decided he really didn’t want to know. Sharon’s shoulders slumped as she silently breathed out in relief. Good. She looked out at the lights twinkling across the foothills and felt the boy studying her profile. His was an old soul, too wise, too experienced for sixteen years.

“Do you feel ready for your chess match tomorrow?”

“Totally. I am going to destroy that kid from St. Xavier.” His face lit up with enthusiasm, again transforming Rusty into a boy -- just a boy. Sharon smiled, sharing his eagerness, and he vaulted up from the chair, never content to stay still for long. “I’ll make the salad. Did you finally buy some decent dressing, or do I have to eat that vinaigrette stuff again?”

“That vinaigrette stuff is good for you,” she replied, her maternal mode very much switched on, before letting her head come to rest on the back of the sofa. Her body was exhausted. She needed to get up and do something before she fell asleep again, because then she’d be too restless to sleep tonight -- and God knew she needed all the sleep she could get before facing the day she had waiting for her tomorrow.

The interruption to Rusty’s loping gait could have been nothing other than a stumble of near-disastrous proportions, and as Sharon twisted around to see what had happened, he grumbled, “Oww, geez, Sharon -- you’re always nagging me to put my stuff away, but you can just leave your shoes in the middle of the floor?”

She winced. “Leave them there. They’re all --”

“Oh, dude, these are wrecked.” The teenager held up one mud-covered pump. “What did you do today?”

“You don’t want to know.” Before he could protest, she added, “Trust me. Salad?”

With a shrug, he turned his attention to the contents of the refrigerator, and Sharon slumped back in relief. She wasn’t fond of the idea of keeping anything from Rusty, particularly since previous efforts had backfired spectacularly, but she needed a bit longer to figure out how to handle this situation. That was what she’d promised him, that she would clue him in after she’d had the opportunity to sift rationally through all the information in her possession. He was right about one thing: her heels were a total loss. Now she needed a brilliant, or at least adequate, plan to keep her investigation from joining them in File Thirteen.

Slogging through three acres of city park land so well drained as to make the La Brea tar pits look like a piddling little mud puddle had just about been the highlight of Captain Raydor’s day. Her division hadn’t found any fossils; but an intrepid dog-walker had found a decomposing body, partially exposed due to the recent heavy rains. Major Crimes had been called in when the boys and girls in blue had realized that the body was that of missing UCLA grad student Kerry Shapiro, and that she was the third victim of a rapist whose brutality had escalated.

“They always seem to come in threes,” Provenza had grumbled, arms folded across his barrel-shaped chest and and his brows lowering. “Why do they always come in threes?”

“What, you wanna go for four?” Flynn had snarled in response, as all of them -- Raydor, Flynn and Provenza, Tao, Sykes, Sanchez, Buzz with his camera -- stood gazing into a shallow pit in the ground, rainwater sluicing down their backs and pooling around their ankles. With the drizzling rain, the mud, and one very dead young woman, tempers had already been running high. The first mention of Phillip Stroh’s name, coming courtesy of Flynn, had been like a match to a powder keg. Provenza had started yelling, Sykes had looked confused, and Raydor had concentrated on shaking excess water from her black umbrella.

“Lieutenant Flynn,” she began as she finished that bit of business, “the similarities are evident to us all. However, this is an entirely new investigation, with three entirely new victims who deserve justice. Detective Sanchez, although we have no way of knowing yet when our victim, Kerry, was placed here, we can assume it was under the cover of darkness, and canvassing the area can't hurt. I want you to return after nightfall and head up that search. Andy and Amy -- uniforms spoke to Kerry’s neighbors after her disappearance was reported, but now I want a house-to-house. Lieutenant Provenza, Kerry was reported missing by a friend after only twelve hours, and I want to know why, so please locate --” Sharon flipped open the file folder she was doing her best to shield from the rain and squinted against the absence of her reading glasses -- “Jacqueline Small. Lieutenant Tao, you and I are going to Kerry’s house.”

Tao had blinked. “Me? You want me to go with you?”

Raydor had blinked back. “Yes. That’s what I said.”

The lieutenant had almost smiled, looking distinctly pleased. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

Before Kerry’s body had turned up that morning, it was the scene of her presumed abduction -- the squat little bungalow that Kerry and a roommate, Peter Gravier, rented not far from the UCLA campus, where Kerry had been studying public policy -- that had caused the local police to link Kerry’s disappearance to the two recent rapes in the area. In all three cases, a window had been opened at the rear of the residence, the victim had been drugged, and, with the two previous, luckier victims, they had awakened to find themselves handcuffed and lying in their own beds. The scene at Kerry’s had been the same, right down to the handcuffs dangling from the headboard of her queen-sized bed, only no Kerry.

Nothing about this case had been sitting well with Raydor as she and Mike Tao had trooped back to her car (although she had appreciated his fastidious efforts to scrape as much mud as possible from his shoes before getting into the Crown Vic). She knew what the others were wondering -- The open window, the drugs, the blonde victims, the body buried in a public park: was this rapist a Stroh copycat? Or worse, had he been trained by Stroh; was Stroh pulling the strings? -- because she was wondering the same things herself. Why had Kerry Shapiro been abducted? Why had her killer buried her body in the middle of a rainstorm, virtually guaranteeing a quick discovery? Why had she, a 29-year-old woman, been reported missing so quickly? 

They’d only had a few hours to sink their teeth into the investigation this afternoon before Chief Taylor had insisted they all go home. Without any definite leads, he’d made it clear that the department couldn’t afford overtime. So now Sharon was sitting on her living room sofa and asking herself the same questions again -- and also wondering how long she could keep Rusty from cottoning onto the details of the division’s current case and the obvious Stroh ties. The last thing he needed, now that he had finally settled into his new routine, his new homelife, his new school, and with the beginning of Philip Stroh’s trial still a good six months away, was to have the events of the summer stirred up again.

Where she still held it loosely in her curled palm, her phone rang, and Sharon jumped. She forced herself to release a slow, deep breath. Maybe she would do a bit of yoga later. She needed to calm down. Her tension would be contagious in the squad room tomorrow, and that would do no one any good. 

She glanced down at the contact information scrolling across the phone’s screen and briefly closed her eyes. Calm, she reminded herself. Calm, calm, calm.

“Hello, chief,” she greeted in a dulcet monotone.

“Sharon,” Taylor drawled. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve just been in conference with Chief Pope. He wants you to go ahead and bring a prosecutor in on this one tomorrow morning.”

“Chief Pope wants -- but we don’t even have a suspect yet!” she pointed out, her voice fraying around the edges. “What good is a D.D.A. going to do?”

“What about the stalker? Is there some reason he’s not a viable suspect?”

“Stalker,” she parroted flatly. “Kerry Shapiro had a stalker.”

She thought she’d kept the questioning lilt out of her voice, but Taylor heard it. “I assumed your detectives would be keeping you better informed than I am, but apparently that’s not the case. You need to lead your team, Captain Raydor, and you need to get a result on this one -- the right result.”

“I always get results,” Sharon replied tightly, her fingers curling painfully into her palm  
.  
“This looks like it’s gonna be a big one, Sharon. Lotta media attention, lotta headlines. Time for you to prove that Major Crimes is still effective under your leadership.”

“I don’t plan to give anyone cause to question my leadership,” she replied in the same tone. “Lieutenant Flynn is calling, chief. I’ll keep you informed.”

It was, Sharon reflected as she switched calls, still weird to be genuinely being grateful to hear from Andy Flynn. Before he could even greet her, she snapped, “What’s this about a stalker? I’ve just had Chief Taylor --”

“Sorry, captain,” the lieutenant cut in quickly. “It was Sykes. Taylor stopped her in the hall, asked her how things were going, and she told him everything. After I hang up I plan to give her a little lesson on how discretion is the better part of valor.”

“See that you do, or I will myself. I thought you and Detective Sykes were heading home after you finished the house-to-house.”

“Yeah, we were, but then we got a tip about a two-tone brown Buick being parked near Kerry’s house a lot at odd hours, following her when she jogged -- a bunch of the residents in the neighborhood are UCLA graduate students, and several knew Kerry by sight. So Sykes and I are getting ready to head back, and what do you suppose we pass?”

“A two-tone brown Buick,” Sharon murmured, sitting up straighter. “Good. Andy --”

“We rolled the driver up. He’s in an interview room now. You want me to talk to him?”

“No!” she exclaimed, struggling awkwardly to her feet from the depths of the sofa. “No,” she repeated at a more reasonable volume. “Wait for me. What have you got on him?”

“Jeff Campbell, 33. He’s got a record. Petty stuff mostly -- shoplifting, drunk and disorderly, and one assault charge. I’ll email it all to you now.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“It’s rush hour, captain.”

“All right, thirty-five minutes.”

She thought she heard Flynn chuckle as she hung up, but she couldn’t be certain. She looked into the kitchen, where Rusty stood at the chopping block, frozen in the act of slicing a cucumber. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her off. “I’ll do my homework before I watch TV, and you’ll probably be late.”

Her lips quirked into a half smile as she extracted two twenties from her wallet and placed them on the counter. “The good news is you get the whole pizza to yourself,” she returned. “Wish me luck.”

Rusty grinned. “Since when do you need luck?”

Ducking into her bedroom for a quick costume change (including, most importantly, fresh shoes), Sharon mentally answered Rusty’s question: since now. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was about this particular investigation, especially since things had been going well within Major Crimes. Perhaps it wasn’t at all scientific or even rational, but, the captain admitted to herself as she yanked on a pair of black slacks and shrugged a fresh blazer on over her tank top, she just had a feeling. A bad feeling.

Her keys jangled as she trotted down the hall, her mind already back in work mode, sparing a fleeting thought to hope Rusty really would do his homework. She wished she could be the kind of super-cop he seemed to imagine. Still, she decided as she stepped out into the cool, misty evening, it was nice to have at least one vote of confidence.


	3. temporary one

Chapter Three: temporary one

“Well?”

In the midst of swallowing a yawn, Andy Flynn focused on the woman leaning against the wall outside Interview Two, pushing against the plaster as if her lower back ached. It probably did; his was sure as hell twinging after over two hours in the interview room’s uncomfortable chairs. You didn’t want anyone you were questioning to get too comfortable, and evidently the LAPD brass didn’t want any of their officers getting comfortable either. Flynn briefly thought they should institute a special dispensation for anyone over fifty, and then envisioned Provenza navigating the corridors in a rolling Barcalounger. 

“Are you asking for my opinion on this dirtbag?”

The captain tipped her chin up as she arched her neck, and her lips twitched toward the slight smile that the lieutenant never knew whether to interpret as amusement or annoyance until it was too late. “Yep,” she responded concisely, surprising Flynn.

“Campbell’s a complete low-life, but he’s not smart enough to have attacked these women without immediately getting caught.”

Raydor stepped away from the wall, her mouth tightening momentarily with impatience. “No, of course he didn’t do it. But is he useful?” 

Flynn blinked. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

The captain emitted a small sigh. “No, neither do I. Send him back to a cell, Andy, and tell Buzz and Amy they can go home.” Raydor had made the decision not to call the rest of the squad back in; and after watching forty-five minutes of the interview, Taylor had departed, leaving behind strict instructions that he be called if anything of interest transpired. “I want everyone back at eight a.m. sharp.”

“That won’t be a problem. -- Hey, captain?” From halfway down the corridor, she turned back and looked at him expectantly. “Stroh could be playing puppet-master again. Campbell could be the new George Harris. A docile, less intelligent partner -- fits his M.O.”

Raydor nodded, her face expressionless. “I know,” she replied. “But Campbell was obsessed with Kerry -- what about the other victims?” The two of them looked at one another for a heavy moment as the question hung in the air until she spoke again. “Good night, lieutenant. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It was after midnight when Sharon got home, and she was exhausted, her body weighed down with fatigue; and yet she lay in bed, fidgeting restlessly and listening to the faint ticking of the clock, until she forced herself to close her eyes and keep them closed. She slept unevenly, luridly colored, jarring dreams assaulting her in fits and starts, and woke with the kind of anxious knot in her belly that she hadn’t experienced since her days of searching for Peter Goldman’s ‘little birdie.’ The practiced hand with which she applied her makeup concealed the outward signs of her trepidation, but did little to calm her nerves.

You’re being ridiculous, she told herself as she dropped Rusty off and watched him tromp toward the school, his backpack bouncing against one shoulder; and then again as she parked her car and waited for the elevator, You’re being ridiculous. All signs pointed to this being a difficult case, but she was no stranger to difficult cases.

She looked into the murder room only long enough to ascertain that everyone but Sykes was present. “Conference room,” she announced, preferring for the time being to proceed away from the ears of the support staff, and her detectives followed with alacrity. No one had been happy about being sent home early the day before.The door had barely closed behind them when it hastily opened again and Sykes appeared, carrying two trays of coffees. Wordlessly she handed one to the captain before the guys pounced on what they had ordered. Provenza opened his mouth to complain that he’d specified no foam, but shut it again. Today was not the day.

“Julio, did you turn anything up last night?”

He met the captain’s gaze as he shook his head. “No ma’am, nothing. But I’ll go back tonight now that the weather’s better.”

“It can’t hurt,” Sharon agreed, nodding.

“I talked to Jackie Small, the girl that reported Kerry missing,” Provenza piped up, leaning back in his chair. “She said she and Kerry were working together on a research study for their theses --”

“Dissertations,” Tao corrected, and Provenza shot him a dark look before continuing.

“Dissertations, whatever. They worked on it every night, without fail, even when Kerry had the flu. Jackie said when Kerry didn’t turn up, she knew something was wrong, so she called Kerry’s roommate, couldn’t reach him, and then called the police.” 

Raydor nodded again. “Let’s corroborate that. Lieutenant Tao, where are we with the roommate, Peter, ah --”

“Gravier,” Tao supplied. “He’s coming in this afternoon.”

Raydor unthinkingly took a large swallow of what turned out to be scalding hot black coffee, and narrowly refrained from spitting it back out. After swallowing with difficulty and clearing her throat, she resumed, “Until then, our only lead is Kerry Shapiro’s stalker, Jeff Campbell. Lieutenant Flynn?”

Flynn summed up what they had extracted from Campbell, which was, in a word, nothing. 

“So he’s not talking?” Tao asked, and Flynn and Raydor exchanged a glance.

“He’s talking,” Raydor put in. “Oh, he’s talking. He’s just not saying anything.”

“Campbell has a serious case of verbal diarrhea,” Flynn elaborated. “But it took us an hour and a half even to get him to admit he knew who Kerry Shapiro was, never mind the fact that he spent all of his time following her around, even when we confronted him with the witness statements. He was scared shitless.”

Raydor nodded. “Which is why I had him held overnight. He ought to be petrified -- although not literally, I hope. I’m going to talk to him again in a few minutes. Detective Sykes, you’ll be with me.”

Amy looked up from the rim of her mocha, her eyes briefly lighting up with eager surprise before she tried to play it cool. “Me? Of course, captain. I’m ready.”

“I want all the rest of you observing from the media room.” Her expression more than usually serious, the captain met their eyes in turn. “We can’t afford to miss the slightest detail. I know I don’t need to remind you that other than Campbell we have nothing to go on, and Chief Pope is already demanding swift closure for this case.” She darted a glance at the wall clock. “Someone from the D.A.’s office will be here at 9:00. I asked for D.D.A. Hobbs, but that’s no guarantee that it won’t be someone else, or that Hobbs will cooperate with us. There is significant pressure to charge Campbell.”

“That’s crazy!” Provenza blustered, half rising from his chair, and Raydor held up a hand.

“The point is that time is of the essence. -- All right. Amy?”

After the two women had swept out of the room, the men followed in their wake before turning as a body and veering toward the media room. “I couldn’t get Campbell to talk at all,” Flynn elaborated as they began the process of situating chairs so that all five of them could see the video feed. “My bad cop was a complete failure. Then the captain came over all maternal. It was terrifying, but he opened right up, and then we couldn’t get him shut again.”

Sanchez snickered, and then up-ended Flynn’s coffee with a wayward swipe of his elbow. “No food or drink!” Buzz exclaimed, pointing adamantly at the sign; so they were all distracted when Raydor and Sykes entered the interview room together, their collective attention drawn back to the monitor only by the sound of chairs scraping across the floor.

“Good morning, Jeff,” Raydor began in her gentlest, most solicitous tone, accompanied by a bland smile. “How are you today?”

Campbell, a pale, fleshy mass of a man, turned a wounded, red-eyed glare on the captain. “I’m terrible!” he exclaimed. “You told me if I cooperated I could go home, and then you locked me up in a cell. I couldn’t sleep in there. How could you expect me to sleep in there?”

Raydor met his beseeching gaze with a sympathetic tilt of her head. “It will all be over soon, Jeff, if you’ll just tell us the truth.”

“I didn’t kill Kerry!” Campbell’s exclamation was wild, uncontrolled. Provenza shot Flynn a look filled with meaning, and Flynn answered with raised eyebrows and a shrug. “I loved Kerry. All I wanted was for her to love me back!”

“But she didn’t.” This was Sykes, cool as a cucumber. Sanchez sat up a little straighter and grinned.

Campbell fixed Sykes with his pale, tearful blue eyes, his expression filled with distrust, before turning back to Raydor. “She just needed to get to know me,” he reasoned in a coaxing, pleading tone, one they all recognized, as he attempted to justify his obsession to the captain. “All I needed was a little more time -- just a little longer, until the time was right.” The tears overflowed. “Now there’s no more time. What am I supposed to do? What’ll I do?”

He began to rock in the hard plastic chair, his attention focusing inward, until Raydor’s hand covered his cuffed wrists where they rested awkwardly on the table. His gaze snapped back to her face. “You have a son,” he said. “You said you have a son.”

“I do, Jeff.” (“Nice consistent use of his name,” Tao commented.) Raydor’s free hand joined her right, and Campbell’s fingers twitched toward hers. Sanchez would’ve bet anything they were clammy. “He’s just a little younger than you, and I would be very worried about him if he were in your position.”

“Exactly!” Campbell sat up a little straighter. “That is exactly my point. My mom, she must be really worried about me. I’ve gotta get out of here. Please, Sharon.”

“Then you need to talk to us.”

Campbell sniffled. “I don’t know anything.”

“Tell us how you killed Kerry.” Sykes again, of course.

The detective couldn’t have expected the response she provoked. Campbell began wailing, screaming really, insisting that he hadn’t harmed the object of his deranged affections. Tao whistled. If a young woman Campbell didn’t even know could inspire such a violent response, what might have happened if Kerry Shapiro had confronted him? 

“Jeff.” Raydor spoke commandingly, now from a standing position. “Enough. If you didn’t kill Kerry, and if you really loved her, then you need to prove it. Help us find the person who did. You watched over Kerry; you protected her. No one knew her as well as you did. So tell us everything you saw. Don’t leave anything out, and I promise you can go home and see your mother.”

Calmer, Campbell looked up and met Raydor’s eyes with a glimmer of hope. “And I can go to Kerry’s funeral and tell her goodbye? I can show everybody how much I love her?”

“Yes,” Raydor lied instantly, completely unfazed, and Provenza chuckled. 

“Chief Johnson’d be proud,” he muttered.

“She might at that.” Hobbs sidled into the media room and looked over Provenza’s shoulder. “I need to speak to Captain Raydor.”

“Oh, she was expecting you,” Provenza replied, twisting around to look up at her. “We all were. I’m sure it’ll keep.”

“I really need to speak to her now,” Hobbs reiterated firmly.

“She’s kind of in the middle of something,” Sanchez deadpanned. 

The D.A. hesitated, looking from the stone-faced detective to the equally adamant countenances of the other members of the division. Finally she shrugged and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. “Have it your way,” she conceded. “But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Like the others watching the interview, Hobbs remained quiet and still for the next forty minutes, until Raydor stood and exited the interview room, leaving Campbell with Sykes, going over every detail of his story for the third time.

Moving quickly, Flynn and Sanchez intercepted the captain in the hallway, Hobbs at their heels. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything out of him,” Sharon said flatly, struggling to reign her frustration in. “Julio, please take my place. We’ll hold him the full time allowable.” Sanchez moved off, and she transferred her attention to Flynn. “Did someone from the -- oh, D.D.A. Hobbs. Thank you for joining us. Lieutenant Flynn can brief you on the --”

“I’ve already been briefed by Chief Pope.”

Sharon pursed her lips and waited a second before speaking. “Chief Pope. I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Looking over Sharon’s shoulder, Hobbs grabbed the captain’s forearm and spoke rapidly. “Sharon, I wanted to let you know in advance that the chief investigator --”

“Is here.” The voice was unmistakable and Sharon froze, unwilling to turn. “Good mornin’, Captain. Lieutenant Flynn.”

“Well.” Sharon spun, hands jammed deeply into her pockets, and confronted Brenda with the stiff, mocking smile the blonde hadn’t seen her wear since a certain memorable day in a hospital lobby. “Brenda. Or I should say Chief Investigator Johnson, since you’re obviously here in your official capacity.”

“That’s an awful mouthful. I think Brenda’ll do just fine.”

“Absolutely,” boomed a voice behind the blonde, a voice that was not naturally booming, and Pope stepped forward, smiling at everyone with false heartiness. “We’re all friends here.”

Raydor cut her eyes at Pope. “Is the district attorney’s office taking over this investigation?”

“No, no, no.” Pope stepped up between the two women, still smiling and conciliatory. “The D.A.’s office is just here to provide us with their assistance. Time is obviously of the essence in a high-profile, sensitive case like this one, and I’m sure we could all use an extra pair of eyes.” The chief took a literal step backwards in his eagerness to escape. “So. I’ll let you get on with it.” He caught Brenda’s eye and nodded. “Brenda.”

She positively beamed back, her eyes nearly disappearing in the process. “Chief Pope,” she all but cooed.

Hands still in her jacket pockets, Raydor rested them on her hips and calmly addressed Hobbs. “I would have appreciated it if someone had informed me,” she murmured. Hobbs only looked back at her.

“Let’s not waste any time,” Brenda proposed sharply. “I want to question Jeff Campbell.”

Regaining some of her composure, Sharon tilted her head. “Detectives Sykes and Sanchez are questioning him again now. You’re welcome to observe in the media room.”

“Captain.” Brenda huffed out a small breath, still half-smiling. “Sharon. I need to question him myself. I know this case better than anybody else.”

“How is that, Brenda?” Still behind the lenses of her glasses, Raydor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Because Major Crimes caught this case less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“No.” Curly blonde head shaking emphatically, Brenda repeated the monosyllable. “No. Major Crimes caught this case four years ago.” Her accent coming on full force, the D.A.’s chief investigator shifted her attention to Lieutenant Flynn. “Natalie Gilbert. Gwyneth Adler. Do you remember them, lieutenant? Because I do.”

Meeting her gaze, Flynn refrained from comment. The blonde’s expression and the brunette’s tense posture foretold no good for anybody, and the last place he wanted to be was in the middle of whatever was about to go down.

“The man who raped and murdered Natalie Gilbert and Gwyneth Adler is behind bars,” Raydor returned with the steady equanimity that was so difficult to shake -- but, as the detectives of Major Crimes had learned, when you did shake it, watch out. “You were instrumental in putting him there. This is a different investigation.”

“This,” Brenda countered in two distinct syllables, voice rising in pitch and volume, “has Phillip Stroh written all over it, which is why I need to be the one in that interview room.” She gestured with the folder she held clutched at her side, unintentionally drawing the captain’s attention to it. Raydor squinted. If such a thing weren’t highly illegal, the captain would have sworn Brenda had made a personal copy of the LAPD’s file on Phillip Stroh. “George Harris, captain -- I know you weren’t there so you won’t remember, but surely you’ve read about him.”

Flynn winced, wishing for a toothpick.

“You know that Stroh has historically worked with a weaker, less intelligent partner, someone he could get to do his heavy liftin’ for him. What I don’t understand is why you’re refusin’ to consider that possibility now.”

“Stroh is in jail.”

“I don’t care if he’s on the moon!” Brenda exclaimed, leaning into the other woman’s personal space. “That doesn’t mean he’s not callin’ the shots. Have you even checked to see if this Jeff Campbell has any known association with Stroh?”

“He doesn’t,” Flynn put in quietly, subdued. “Not that we could find.”

“That doesn’t mean there’s not one.” Brenda set off at a fast clip down the hall. “I’m questionin' him.”

Her hand was on the doorknob of Interview Two when another hand appeared at eye-level, slender fingers pressing against the door, and then Raydor slipped between Brenda and her access to the suspect. “No,” she said calmly, her eyes meeting Brenda’s from only inches away. The green was startling. “Absolutely not. I am in charge of this investigation, and you are not going into this interview room.”

“I’ll speak to Chief Pope about --”

“Fine. Tattle to Pope.” Brenda felt herself flinch, no doubt as Sharon had intended. “But before you do, stop and think for one moment. Suppose that you’re right, and Phillip Stroh is somehow involved in this string of assaults. What happens if you are the person to approach Jeff Campbell and mention Stroh’s name?”

Brenda’s eyes flashed. “Then maybe I’ll get some actual information from Campbell, instead of just lettin’ him sit there and deny everything,” she snapped. 

The elevator dinged as its doors slid open, and both women instinctively turned toward it. David Gabriel stepped out, taking in the scene, and paused in consternation.

Sharon turned back to Brenda. “You have got to be kidding,” she hissed, and then brushed past the younger woman and stalked down the hall.

Brenda flitted after her, vaguely gesturing at Gabriel to go -- somewhere, anywhere. She caught the other woman just outside the Murder Room. “Chief Pope,” she began, and pretended not to see the captain roll her eyes. “Chief Pope,” she repeated doggedly, “has approved my involvement with this case -- not that I need his approval, as a member of the District Attorney’s staff. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me for the duration. All I’m askin’ is that you let me do my job and help you.” 

“Help,” Raydor repeated mincingly, sounding more like a pedantic school marm than ever. “I see. So, then, in your expert opinion, Chief Investigator, these ingredients do not have ‘recipe for disaster’ stamped all over them? You, the name Phillip Stroh, the reintroduction of David Gabriel into this division --”

Brenda had to interrupt the older woman’s stern little speech. “I believe that everyone here is capable of behavin' professionally, captain. Why can’t we just work together and share?”

Sharon’s eyes widened at Brenda’s use of the nasty s-word. The reading glasses she still wore made the irises behind the lenses appear enormous. “We are not working together. We are working at cross purposes. Major Crimes is perfectly capable of carrying out a routine investi--”

“This isn’t a routine investigation!” Brenda exclaimed, frustrated beyond belief and all but stomping her foot.

“No, because a routine investigation is not run by the D.A.’s office!” Raydor bit out, her tone finally becoming strident to compete with the blonde’s. “You do not have the authority to come in here and interfere with my investigation --”

“Oh, it’s your investigation, is it?”

“ -- And I cannot conduct it properly with you looking over my shoulder and second-guessing every decision!” the captain continued, undeterred, her jaw jutting with determination.

“Now, comin’ from you, that is rich. I am well within my rights, as an employee of the district attorney’s office, to intervene when I have cause to determine that an investigation is not bein' handled with the necessary rigorous --”

“That you would actually have the gall to come prancing in here,” Raydor shouted back, her arm arcing in a wide, sweeping gesture, “like you own the --”

“Ladies!”

The utter absorption of the two women in their heated confrontation was illustrated by the way they both jumped at the intervention of Chief Taylor. He was less than stealthy at the best of times -- and this was not the best of times. His sunshine-yellow tie offered not the slightest suggestion of covert activities.

“And under the circumstances,” he continued, “I use that term loosely. Let’s take this discussion to a more suitable venue. I suggest either my office or the WWE.”

Brenda knew chagrin and annoyance were mingling across her countenance, and couldn’t help admiring Sharon, whose expression gave absolutely nothing away. How did she do that? Did she practice in the bathroom mirror?

During the silent elevator ride, Brenda tried to distract herself by inventorying Sharon’s outfit, which consisted of a black blazer and a rather figure-hugging royal blue dress with what could only be described as a flowy skirt. The blonde bit her lip. Who was this woman standing in such close proximity to her that Brenda could smell her shampoo? Where was her Captain Raydor, the one who had first annoyed the piss out of her and then done her best to save her ass (while still annoying the piss out of her)? Where were her matchy-matchy little pantsuits and stilettos? 

For her part, Raydor was staring so fixedly at the closed elevator doors that Brenda half expected her to bore a hole through them. Just for that moment, her anger at the other woman evaporated, and she couldn’t help but be the tiniest bit amused by their resemblance to naughty schoolgirls being carted ignominiously off to the principal’s office. Brenda smirked. She’d been a straight-A student, and she would’ve bet the contents of her candy drawer that Sharon had too. The captain had probably never even seen the inside of a principal’s office.

Taylor barely waited for them to be seated before he began. “Let’s not mince words.” 

In her leather chair, Sharon perked up slightly. A novelty, she thought, feeling a spark of optimism. Maybe the chief wasn’t going to cut her off at the knees after all. Just maybe.

Meanwhile, Brenda also felt confident. Taylor couldn’t try to obstruct her access to the investigation without directly countermanding an order given by his superior. She sat back and waited, not content, but not quite vibrating with impatience.

“Your personal problems don’t matter to me,” the assistant chief said bluntly, looking between the two women. “This investigation matters. Chief Investigator, this is an LAPD investigation. That makes it Captain Raydor’s investigation. She’s in charge. Captain Raydor, you will cooperate fully with all representatives of the D.A.’s office. That means giving Ms. Johnson here full access to all aspects of the investigation. And if either of you should be so foolish as to violate that agreement, let me explain to you, as the former media liaison of the LAPD, exactly what’s going to happen.” Taylor settled back in his captain’s chair, propped his elbows on his desk, and paused for effect. “The media gets wind of bad blood between the two main branches of Los Angeles law enforcement, tears us to shreds, and not only do we most likely lose whoever is out there perpetrating these heinous assaults on young women -- especially if there’s a connection to Phillip Stroh -- but we lose the confidence of the public. Confidence that we’ve been working to regain for over twenty years in the wake of the 1992 riots. Now, I trust I’ve impressed you with the severity of this situation.”

He waited for them to nod, which they did in concert, rather shame-facedly, and then concluded, “You’ve got work to do. Go do it.”

Sharon had uncrossed her legs and begun to stand when Brenda’s voice stopped her.

“Chief Taylor, if I may. For every investigation, there’s a right result and a wrong result. And if Captain Raydor keeps runnin’ this investigation into the ground, the result she gets is certainly goin’ to be the wrong one.”

Without waiting for Taylor’s reply, Raydor turned and faced Brenda. “Would you care to elaborate? Proper procedure has been followed to the letter. Everything is documented and logged. All relevant avenues of investigation are being pursued. So, please, in what respect has Major Crimes been negligent?”

“In respect of ignorin’ the blatant connection to Phillip Stroh,” Brenda returned, disgusted. “The M.O. is the same. The victim profile is the same. Right this very minute you’ve got a man sittin’ down in Interview Two who would be a perfect submissive partner for Stroh. And you haven’t even mentioned his name! I bet you haven’t even shown his picture to the survivin’ victims.”

“No,” the captain agreed evenly, “we haven’t.”

“There!” Brenda exclaimed, turning to Taylor as her impatience bubbled over, making it impossible for her to sit still. She rocked forward, hugging her elbows. “Do you hear?!”

Sharon stood a little straighter, pressing her lips together, and refused to spare the younger woman another look.

“Investigator Johnson,” Taylor drawled in that uniquely maddening way of his, “perhaps the District Attorney’s office could offer the LAPD a workshop in listening skills. Because I’ve been listening to everything Captain Raydor has said, and I didn’t hear the part where she explained that Major Crimes has definitively ruled out any connection to Stroh.” He paused, shuffling a few papers for effect, and looked pointedly at Sharon.

“I’m quite certain I didn’t say that, chief, because my division has not reached that conclusion. It’s far too early in the investigation.” Her body still angled to face her superior, Sharon swiveled only her head to regard the other woman. “We are simply pursuing other avenues of investigation.”

A vein in Brenda’s forehead throbbed. “Has it not occurred to you that while you’re off pursuin’ these other avenues, Stroh has got whoever else is out there doin’ his dirty work for him eradicatin’ every trace of his involvement with these crimes? You can call them ‘avenues,’ but they’re blind alleys, and you know it!” Her ponytail whipped as she tried to split her ire between the assistant chief and the captain, striving to give each an equal dose.

Sharon reached up and removed her glasses, snatching them from the bridge of her nose with alacrity. “May I speak frankly?” she asked Taylor with the utmost politeness. Green-lighted by his expansive gesture, she turned to Brenda.

“As soon as you walked back into this building this morning, everyone knew it. Somehow, some way, Phillip Stroh will know it too. He still has friends in the legal community -- powerful, influential friends. Again -- assume you are correct. Assume there is a connection to Stroh. He has mentored Harris, or someone else, or is somehow exerting influence over him, or selecting victims for him. Stroh is currently awaiting trial, Brenda, for attempting to murder you and Rusty.”

“He should be on trial for all the women he did murder,” Brenda interrupted hotly.

“He should be,” the captain continued, “but he isn’t. He has already threatened to file suit against the LAPD for pursuing a vendetta against him. If he chooses to bring that lawsuit, you will certainly be cited front and center. Unless we exercise extreme caution, so will I, along with every other member of Major Crimes. Does this scenario sound familiar?” She paused. “The only reason someone from Professional Standards isn’t sitting here right now is because I am sitting here. In your capacity with the District Attorney’s office, you aren’t officially accountable to the LAPD’s code of conduct, but no doubt you are sensible to the delicacy of your position.”

Sharon spoke in the steady, relentless monotone Brenda had so come to dread during the Peter Goldman mess; and now as then she heard the same remorseless ring of truth in the older woman’s words. 

“We cannot be seen to go charging after Phillip Stroh. You cannot be anywhere near the scent of Phillip Stroh. We are not ignoring a possible connection. Your former detectives and I, Brenda, have not gone blind or developed catastrophic amnesia; but no one is splashing Stroh’s name across the murder board. Not on my watch.”

Raydor fell silent and awaited a response, her gaze trained on Brenda’s dark, glittering eyes. No verbal response came, but the blonde continued to return her scrutiny, and after a moment the captain nodded, satisfied.

“Good. On that note --” Taylor made a shooing motion toward the door.

In the corridor, Raydor risked a sidelong glance at Brenda and found the younger woman smirking up at her from beneath her bangs. “I don’t envy you that,” Brenda drawled, jerking her head back toward the assistant chief’s closed door, and Raydor smirked back. “What now, capt’n?”

“What do you think?” Raydor returned in a tone that suggested it wasn’t really a question.

Brenda emphatically pressed the elevator call button. “Now,” she announced, “I’m goin’ to question Jeff Campbell.”

Stepping into the car behind her, Sharon felt a prickly chill despite the warmer air of the enclosed space. She could only assume that her premonitions of doom were coming to fruition.


	4. the sound of my voice will haunt you

Chapter Four: the sound of my voice will haunt you

1.

In the dim and distant past, before Sharon moved to L.A., she had often thought driving was a soothing activity. She could be alone with her thoughts, the radio if she wanted it, and the steady, comfortably monotonous sound of the wheels gripping the asphalt, while the open road stretched before her. But driving in Los Angeles was not soothing. There was no open road, and in the seemingly rare intervals when her car was actually moving, she was too distracted by the road-rage-induced honks and screeching tires of other drivers to hear the sound of her own innocent little tires.

At the end of the day she'd just had, the short drive home was almost more than the captain could handle. The tension that had spiked and simmered all day, especially in Brenda Leigh Johnson's company, ratcheted up to alarming, I-might-scream-or-have-a-stroke levels. She enjoyed having Rusty live with her, with the energy and companionship and challenges he brought to her routine, but as she had at long last unlocked the door of the condo and stepped inside, she'd been more than a little relieved to remember that the chess tournament had been that afternoon, with the faculty sponsor taking the kids out for dinner afterward. A quick glance at her watch had confirmed that she could anticipate two whole hours of quiet, peaceful relaxation and solitude.

The problem was that that had been an hour ago, and the relaxing had not yet begun.

Sharon had gone through all the customary steps. There had been a hot shower, a change into clothing that involved no buttons or undergarments, and the pouring of an extra-large glass of chardonnay. She had even turned the thermostat down lower than normal, because sometimes she liked to feel the slight chill of the cool air on her skin – one of life's tiny luxuries.

And yet it lingered, the tight, immovable knot of tension brooding in her stomach and tugging on her limbs. She'd tried forcing herself to be still; had contemplated unrolling her yoga mat, but knew she lacked the will to focus.

Exasperated, she stood and stalked aimlessly around the living room, scowling. Sometimes only one thing would really help. As tight and stern as the control was that she had taught herself to maintain on the job, at times she craved the kind of release that overwhelmed both mind and body. She was far too old to be prudish about something so natural, but tonight she was strangely reluctant.

"This is ridiculous," she snapped aloud, and realized it was the third time in twenty-four hours that she'd admonished herself with those words. She spun on her heel and marched to her bedroom, swiftly closing and locking the door just in case. Since Rusty's arrival, she had been very careful and circumspect about her indulgence in this most private and personal of acts; sadly, that meant the assortment of toys in the metal lock-box at the back of Sharon's closet had gotten little attention over the past six months. Sharon had a penchant for things that vibrated, and things that vibrated, no matter how small and sophisticated, made noise. Tonight there was no reason for such scruples, though. She knelt on the floor, turned the key in the lock, reached past her spare gun, and, not distracted by the array of bright colors and appealing shapes, laid her hand immediately upon what she wanted.

Drawing the comforter back, she efficiently stripped off her loose pants and stretched out on the cool sheet, flexing and pointing her toes, feeling the tension zing through her body. Briefly she wondered if other women's bodies channeled anxiety like this. She felt hers already gathering, tightening at the base of her spine and between her legs. It wouldn't take much. She didn't want to rush, though. It would be better if she waited, went more slowly.

She flicked the on switch with her thumb and listened for a moment to the buzzing sound that filled the room. Letting the vibrator rest against the inside of her thigh, she allowed the vibrations to skitter across her skin, to settle so close to where she wanted to feel them. She took another breath, exhaling slowly, imagining that she could feel all her nerve endings. Only then did she shift the position of the toy, bringing the vibrating node to rest squarely against her clit. The muscles of her lower abdomen and buttocks tightened, arching toward the silicone surface, and she sighed. She drew small circles for a few minutes, just the way she liked, and then reached for the small tube of lubricant she had retrieved along with the vibrator.

Sharon came reliably just from having her clit rubbed, but when she wanted to be penetrated, this was what she reached for. The vibration of the rabbit ears, not as strong as what she generally preferred but strong enough, and the perfect placement against the tip of her clitoris provided the added stimulation she needed to get off this way; and tonight she wanted to be fucked. The shaft was firm, but the covering soft and flexible – more like an actual penis than a torture device. The hot pain of the initial intrusion, the stretching of her body to accommodate the bulbous head, tingled through her toes; and then, more easily than she had anticipated even with the lube, it slid inside, and her muscles clamped down almost to the point of discomfort. Usually silent, she let herself whimper. She must be wetter than usual. Eyes closed, she pictured the pink head parting her own softly pink lips. She pushed more firmly, circling her hips, and then pressed the second button on the small controller, the one that really made this toy worthwhile. The shaft began to twist. Her hips bucked, and then settled into a rocking rhythm.

Yes, this was what she needed. Sex like this, like sex with a man or a strap-on or, hell, a cucumber. Sex with something hard and demanding inside her. She pushed the toy inside herself harder, all the way in, and her body took it greedily. Yes, this. Not the softness of delicate curves or the sway of breasts or the moist tickle of breath on her thigh. Not blonde curls brushing her skin, dark eyes looking up beseechingly, the practiced swipe of a soft tongue peeking from a lipsticked mouth.

Sharon's clit throbbed, her internal muscles tightening again, as her eyes flew open and fixed on the white ceiling above her bed. "No!" she cried in a kind of desperate rage, but it was too late: her pulse was hammering, her breathing ragged, her body unable or unwilling to wait. She shattered with Brenda's image imprinted on her vision.

2.

Brenda's breath caught a little, a tight flutter in her chest, and then, as her chest loosened just enough to breathe again, she chose not to wonder why. Her lips curved up into a smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. This couldn't be the reaction the captain had hoped to provoke, if she'd hoped to provoke one at all. Brenda had to assume she had. The way she was dressed couldn't be a coincidence. The crisp lines of the snowy white blouse, the stark folds of the black fabric, the severely fashionable blazer nipping in at her slender waist, the elegant flow of the expensive trousers all the way down to the black stilettos: looking at her was like falling down the rabbit hole and waking up five years ago. Her Captain Raydor, Deputy Chief Johnson's Captain Raydor, had entered the building.

Brenda levied herself away from the corner of Andy's desk into a fully upright position. "Good mornin', captain," she said, struggling mightily to keep from grinning.

The answering expression was one Brenda hadn't realized she'd missed: the slight flaring of those eyes behind their lenses, the hollowing of the cheeks. "Not a bad dream, then," the captain murmured. "Hell-o, Brenda."

So this was the way they were going to play the game today. She was glad. As – invigorating – as sparring with Captain Raydor for sixteen hours yesterday had been, it hadn't done much to advance the investigation or to get her closer to Phillip Stroh.

"Ma'am, Peter Gravier's brother is in Interview One. I mirandized him like we talked about. Do you want me or Sykes in there with him?"

Brenda spun automatically toward the sound of Sanchez's voice, answer at the ready, to find that his brown gaze was trained not on her but on her taller companion. Becoming aware of Brenda's scrutiny, Sanchez glanced at her. "Uh, Captain Raydor, ma'am," he clarified in an awkward manner.

"Detective Sykes can do it. You have just enough time to get to the 7-11 before our appointment, I believe."

Sanchez nodded and turned away, calling out "Anybody want a slurpee?" to the Murder Room at large.

Sharon turned to Brenda with a forced smile. "Would you like to join me while I talk to the brother?" she asked with such excessive politeness that Brenda's chin puckered in the embryo of a frown.

"I'd just love to," the blonde cooed, pouring on her own charm, and then studied the captain's back as the two of them walked down the hall. Something had been a little off with Sharon the previous evening as well, although she'd seemed fine for most of the day when they'd been sniping at one another. It had started sometime after Taylor's ill-fated press conference, although Brenda couldn't pinpoint the moment.

Her mind shifted gears when they stepped into the interview room and Raydor turned and shot her a look filled with meaning. Brenda perked up.

"Good mornin', Mr. Gravier," she chirped. "I'm Brenda Leigh Johnson, and this is Captain Sharon Raydor. Thank you so much for agreein' to come down this mornin'."

Peter Gravier's older brother blinked at Brenda, looking a little startled. "Um, well, when your detectives showed up at my front door, I didn't think I had much of a choice," he stammered. He looked hesitantly between the two women. "Is this about Peter? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Raydor smiled in turn, that bland, mildly questioning smile. "Why would you assume that?"

"Just – I don't know. This awful business with Kerry. I mean, like, if Pete didn't want to talk to you, or something –

Where the younger brother oozed confidence to the point of arrogance, the older sibling was awkward, beyond ill at ease. "Oh, did you know Kerry too?" Brenda asked in the same bright tone.

"Sure." Again Tom Gravier looked from one woman to the other. "Why wouldn't I know my brother's girlfriend?"

"Kerry and Peter were in a relationship?" Sharon asked, tilting her head to meet Tom's eyes as she scrawled a note on the yellow legal pad in front of her.

"Yeah. I mean –" Tom hesitated again, his expression becoming alarmed. "They broke up, like, a month or two ago. But it was amicable," he added hastily.

Raydor smiled. "It's just that he didn't mention it," she said. "If you could, please, we need you to list any real estate properties or investments that you or your brother own or manage." Still smiling, she pushed the legal pad across the table toward the agitated man.

As Brenda and Sharon exited the interview room, Sykes returned to chaperon Gravier, who was writing as if his life depended on it.

"Are you gonna roll bring Gravier in?"

"Hmm?" Raydor murmured, distracted. "Peter? Oh, no, not yet."

From habit if nothing else the two women walked toward the break room, where Brenda refilled her disposable cup and Sharon poured strong black coffee into a travel mug that she produced from her bag. As Brenda sipped, testing to see if she'd added enough cream and sugar, Sharon asked, "Ready?"

"Let me just run to the ladies' room." Smiling again, Brenda passed her cup off to the other woman. "I'll be two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Raydor sighed very softly as she watched the other woman walk away. Sweet-as-pie Brenda was even worse than give-'em-hell Brenda. The captain pressed her lips together and looked down at the bright coral lipstick staining the rim of Brenda's coffee cup. She felt her eyes narrow as she scrutinized it, and resolved to be prepared for anything. That was her new mantra: be prepared for anything.

She'd thought she had been prepared the day before, remaining calm and authoritative as Brenda had tested her boundaries like a precocious teen, attempting to throw her weight around and demanding to interview Campbell. And yet it had taken such a small thing – a tiny thing – to break the captain's stride and cause… the events of last night.

Because she hadn't been prepared for it, Sharon reminded herself, putting Brenda's cup down and straightening her blazer. And now she was prepared. For anything.

The younger woman's heels clacked as she walked briskly back toward the captain. As she approached, Brenda offered her a bright smile and reached for her coffee. "You ready?"

Sharon gave the barest of smiles in return. "For anything," she confirmed, her calm, low voice ringing with steel.

They set off for the elevator. "I'll drive," Sharon said, and Brenda didn't protest.

Not, the captain reflected, that she was necessarily safer on her own territory. The incident yesterday had taken place in her office.

"Detective Sanchez will be meeting us there," she added aloud, and the blonde nodded. She was being very cooperative, almost docile, and Sharon had enough sense to feel a little nervous. Brenda Leigh just loved lulling her opponents into a false sense of security.

Well, Sharon had a surprise in store for her, too.

After their meeting with the assistant chief on the previous day, things had gone well, comparatively speaking. They had avoided nuclear holocaust. Thinking it best to cut her losses and realizing that Brenda was itching to get back into an interview room, Raydor had conceded to allow her to question Campbell, provided she swore not to mention Stroh. Brenda had seemed somewhat affronted when she had caught Sharon attempting to make sure she wasn't crossing her fingers behind her back as she promised, but had settled down again when the captain hadn't insisted on going with her. Instead, she had sent Provenza. A few months ago that would have been suicide, as the eldest of Raydor's lieutenants would have been perfectly willing to do the former deputy chief's bidding; but now Raydor felt confident that he was the most capable of quickly and seamlessly guiding her back into line if Brenda strayed from the parameters to which she and Sharon had agreed beforehand.

She didn't. Neither did she extract any stunning revelations from Campbell. After informing him that they would want to speak to him again, they'd sent Campbell home to his mother in time to make his evening shift at the 7-11.

"David Gabriel?" Raydor had murmured during a momentary lull, and Brenda had focused on the candy she was unwrapping.

"He just needed to ask me a question about another investigation. It was urgent," she claimed.

Raydor hadn't believed her for a second, but she was glad that Brenda's good sense had prevailed.

Brenda had been further mollified by the knowledge that both surviving rape victims were coming in to be shown a composite book of mug shots, and that Stroh's photo would be included in that book. She had even smiled when the captain had suggested that Brenda be the one to talk to them.

"Lieutenant Flynn can accompany you," Raydor had continued, turning to make eye contact with him across several intervening feet of Murder Room real estate. "You're very good with young women, Andy."

As he had sidled toward his desk, Andy had cracked a sly grin and asked, "Hear that, fellas? The captain said I'm good with young women."

"Yeah, rape victims," Sanchez had pointed out, and Raydor hadn't been able to resist adding, "It's a pity that charm of yours has no effect on women closer to your own age."

The look on Flynn's face had been priceless, and the others had looked almost equally stunned, no one more so than Brenda. It was the first time the captain had every openly cracked a joke and played along with their ribbing.

During this charming exchange, Tao had been keeping Mr. Peter Gravier company in the conference room. At Sharon's knock, he slipped out to confer with her in the hallway. "Real nice guy," the lieutenant had informed her sotto voce. "Seems a lot more concerned about when he'll get his house back than he does about his dead roommate."

Twenty minutes later, Raydor could only agree with Tao. Gravier was, to put it plainly, a creep. After talking, at Sharon's instigation, about how special Kerry was and how the world had lost a unique essence, as he phrased it, he had immediately shifted gears and demanded to know when the crime scene would be released.

Raydor had regarded him with raised eyebrows. "If it is absolutely necessary, the department can help you to secure accommodation until the crime scene has been thoroughly documented."

With an ankle crossed over the opposite knee, Gravier, who was only 27, had assured her that lack of accommodations was not the problem. "I'm in real estate, captain. There's no shortage of places where I can stay. But this time of year, between semesters, it's when the college kids and grad students like to move. And in that neighborhood, as close as it is to UCLA, I can get two times the rent Kerry was paying."

After Sharon's conversation with Gravier, Sykes had looked up at the captain from behind her desk with a curled lip. "I suppose it's too much to hope that he killed Kerry for the rent money?"

"See if Buzz can get a suitable still of Gravier from the security feed to use for the composite book," Raydor had replied. "I don't like him."

Neither Amber Hodges nor Tiffany Pierce turned a hair at the photo of Phillip Stroh; but Tiffany had said Jeff Campbell looked kind of familiar, and Amber thought she possibly recognized Peter Gravier.

Brenda was dismayed. Sharon was dismayed, tried not to show it, and failed. The detectives were dismayed. They had sat and stood around the Murder Room in various poses and degrees of consternation, drinking burnt coffee.

"Is it possible they're working together?" Sykes had asked, leaning forward and resting her hands on her knees.

Sanchez had looked over at her. "The stalker and the roommate? What about the earlier victims?"

"At this point anything is possible," Raydor had spoken up, "which is the problem."

"Neither Tiffany nor Amber could remember where they might have seen Gravier or Campbell," Flynn had pointed out, lounging atop Provenza's desk just to piss the older man off. "Maybe Tiffany bought a soda at the 7-11 where Campbell works. Maybe Amber, I don't know, works out at the same gym as Gravier."

"Check on it, lieutenant," Raydor had replied wearily. "Check on all of it. Lieutenant Tao, we already know Jeff Campbell doesn't have a cell phone plan; see what you can get from Gravier's phone records. And get financials on both of them. Has Campbell ever bought a burner phone? Where does he stop for gas? Anything."

The detectives had begun to talk to the room at large, bandying about ideas and suggesting other tasks to be performed. As Sharon listened, she'd heard her office phone begin to ring, and sighed. Only three people ever called her on her office phone: Pope, Taylor, and the principal at Rusty's school.

It had been Taylor. She would almost have preferred to hear that Rusty had been in another fistfight.

"We're convening a press briefing in forty-five minutes," he had informed her brusquely. "We need to be on top of this situation."

If Sharon had been any other police captain alive, she would have gaped. "Sir, we don't have anything to tell the press, other than the fact that there's a serial rapist attacking young, athletic blondes."

"So tell them that."

She'd blinked. "With respect, chief, that is a terrible idea. The last thing we want to do is create a panic."

"It is a terrible idea," he'd agreed with aplomb. "So you'd better think of something better. You have… forty-three minutes."

Sharon had looked up at the clock. The department still had no official media liaison. "Who will be conducting this briefing?"

"You will, captain. In forty-two minutes."

Maybe, Sharon had thought, staring at the phone, Brenda's appearance hadn't been responsible for her increasing sense of doom after all; maybe it had been a premonition about the press conference.

In general, Raydor was all for transparency; and her tenure in IA had taught her very well about the value both of positive press and of getting ahead of bad news. You never wanted the media to think it had discovered something you were trying to keep quiet; instead, you wanted to serve it to them on a silver platter. But this… Taylor had called a press conference at which she could literally say nothing. At least her children and parents didn't live in L.A. They wouldn't have to see her making a fool of herself on the local news.

Brenda had knocked before stepping into the office. "You should take it as a compliment," she'd said. "They never would let me talk to reporters. Well, just that one time with Ramos. And that didn't go very well." Sharon hadn't bothered asking her how she knew about the press conference.

The chief investigator's expression had grown more serious. "Are you plannin' to give them the victim profile?" When Raydor nodded, she'd continued, "Somebody will ask about Stroh."

It was too high profile a case to expect anything else. It wasn't every day that one of the best-known attorneys in the area was arrested on six counts of murder, two counts of attempted murder, and seven counts of rape. The captain had simply nodded again. "I know," she had replied.

She had been as prepared as she could be, but not prepared enough. Fortunately, the polished redhead from the L.A. Times hadn't voiced her question at the beginning of the half hour, or it would have ended up being the shortest press conference on record.

The journalist had begun with the inevitable question about whether or not Stroh was a suspect. Raydor had felt rather proud of herself as she had replied, "Mr. Stroh is not a person of interest at this time."

"Are you aware, captain," the woman had followed up, with the most annoying air of innocence possible, "that one hour ago Mr. Stroh provided the Times with an open letter to the Los Angeles Police Department, and to Major Crimes, yourself, Assistant Chief Russell Taylor, and Chief William Pope in particular, in which he demands that his case be reopened, in view of the facts that these new assaults, which adhere in all particulars to the M.O. attributed to Mr. Stroh, constitute evidence that exonerates him of all crimes, and that Mr. Stroh's arrest was the result of a vendetta against him carried out by a single member of the force, an officer whose employment has since been terminated?"

It had taken her the space of three breaths, but Sharon had managed to reply, in her most professional tone, "Mr. Stroh is not awaiting trial on charges pertaining to the previous rapes and murders, but rather for the attempted murder of a veteran LAPD officer and a young boy." The captain had taken a step back from the microphone. "That will be all at this time. Thank you."

Brenda had again been waiting for her in her office – sitting not in the visitor's chair, but behind the desk. Too preoccupied to protest with more than a pointed look, Sharon had paused by the door to take off her blazer, and the other woman had at least had the courtesy to get up.

"No candy?"

Sharon's eyes had widened. "You looked in my desk?"

Rather than answering, Brenda had said, "You handled that as well as could be expected. Nice of Taylor to give Stroh a perfect opportunity to grandstand."

Although the blonde had evidently been making an effort to be pleasant, Sharon hadn't been able to resist pointing out, "I warned you about what would happen as soon as anyone got wind of your involvement in this investigation."

"What does it matter," Brenda had fired back, "since you all are so convinced it doesn't have anythin' to do with Stroh anyway? Besides, this would have happened with or without me. Stroh planned it this way."

Still a little too traumatized by the press conference to have that conversation with the other woman right then, the captain had made the decision to retire from the field of battle – i.e., to go to the break room and get a diet soda, leaving Brenda in possession of the office (not, she'd thought fiercely, that that was in any way symbolic). It was as she'd reached for the door knob that the incident, the tiny little incident in the midst of this day packed with more important events, had taken place.

Brenda had reached out and grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to hurt but sufficiently firmly to arrest her progress for a couple of seconds. "Wait, Sharon," she had objected.

It had been a phantom sensory memory of an event that had never happened, one that the captain had only imagined dozens of times. Brenda reaching out and grabbing her wrist, Sharon spinning around with her back to the door to face her – as Sharon had felt it happening, actually happening, her heart had begun to pound, and her eyes had widened. After a few seconds she had become aware of Brenda, her forehead wrinkling as she stared at the brunette in perplexity.

The younger woman had released her wrist and taken a small step back. "We need to go talk to Phillip Stroh, Sharon. You and me. Tomorrow."

That wasn't the way it had happened all those times Sharon had imagined it.

In her vision, when Brenda grabbed her arm, it was the final straw, the breaking point; and the captain informed the deputy chief in no uncertain terms that she had finally gone too far. The words Sharon herself would speak were never clear in her mind, but she felt the reverberation inside her skull of the ringing, angry tone as she finally unleashed all her stored-up frustration and demanded the respect Brenda Johnson owed her. And so, when the blonde knelt at the captain's feet, right between her stilettos, and gently canted Sharon's hips back so that she leaned against the door – when her pale, trembling hands fumbled with the button and zipper on the black slacks that were ubiquitous in this fantasy before succeeding in pushing the material down around Sharon's thighs, and when her soft, desperate, eager mouth closed around Sharon's clit, her tongue flicking insistently - it became a fantasy that involved sex, but not really a sexual fantasy. The captain had never felt all that guilty for imagining it, replaying the details over and over, sometimes even when she talked to the deputy chief or regarded her across Will Pope's office, because she had always known it was really a fantasy of power. Just once, she would have liked to be in control; just once, she would have liked to make Brenda Leigh answer to her, literally to get down on her knees. It wasn't about sexual fulfillment or pleasure, but about being in charge and wielding the ability to withhold her approval, making Brenda work and work - for nothing. Coolly, Sharon had always imagined the stirrings of arousal she would feel; she had even imagined that Brenda would be able to make her come – with that mouth, how could she not? But the real pleasure, the rush, the appeal of the fantasy had been the knowledge that there would be no reward for Brenda, that Sharon could hold herself stiff and unyielding even as the orgasm washed over her; that she could keep her expression totally unmoved. Having that kind of power over the deputy chief would be better than sex.

Perhaps the real Sharon was so stunned there in her office because the images that blindsided her were ones she had nearly forgotten after they had lain dormant for so long. Perhaps it was also because now, instead of hearing herself unleashing a tirade of angry words, Sharon saw herself whirling the younger woman until their positions were reversed, pushing her up against the closed door, and kissing her with the same desperation she had attributed to Brenda in the old fantasy, determined not to stop until she had slaked the lust that crushed her entire body like an iron fist.

Sharon had sucked in a harsh, shaky breath, and Brenda's frown had deepened. "You okay?"

Mercifully, there had been a distraction in the form of Jacqueline Small, Kerry's lab partner, who reiterated what she had told Provenza. She explained that she and Kerry had started the doctorate program in psychology at the same time, four years earlier, and had immediately become fast friends. She had, at least, unlike Gravier, seemed genuinely distraught at the death of her friend, sniffling and tearing a Kleenex to shreds with her blue-polished thumbnails as she spoke to Sharon and Brenda.

"Am I going to be able to get into the house soon? Kerry had the most recent data on our study – we hadn't typed it up yet. I tried asking Peter, but he won't text me back. He doesn't really like me."

After Sharon had assured the young woman that she would be able to retrieve her property soon, Brenda had asked, "You and Peter – you don't get along?"

Jackie's red eyes had blinked, mouse-like. "Oh, I barely know him." She'd sniffed. "I don't think he was crazy about the idea of Kerry moving in with me."

Sharon had held back a sigh. Not that it had seemed terribly likely in the first place, but Gravier wouldn't have needed to murder Kerry in order to get rid of a roommate who had been planning to move out anyway.

As soon as Ms. Small had departed, Brenda had again cornered Sharon and returned to her favorite subject: "You. Me. Phillip Stroh. Tomorrow."

"Yes," the captain had agreed ruefully. "Me. You. Stroh. Tomorrow."

And so now here they were, on this brilliantly sunny Southern California morning, off to see the wizard.

Sanchez must have broken several minor traffic laws, because he was waiting inside when the captain and chief investigator arrived for their meeting with Phillip Stroh. Without exchanging any unnecessary small-talk, the three of them went through the familiar process of showing their identification, having their possessions screened, and being escorted through the first of several locked gates separating the confined prisoners from the outside world. Sanchez couldn't ever help shivering internally when he heard those gates clang into place, and as he looked at his two companions, he surmised that the women shared the same uneasy thrill.

"Captain, the prisoner is ready for you," a guard informed Sharon. "The interview room is the second door on the left, and the observation room is right in front of you."

"Observation room?" Brenda asked sharply.

Oh. Observation room, indeed. Sanchez felt the captain's intent gaze, murky now, trained not on the blonde but on his own face, tracking the progress of his dismayed expression as it assumed a growing measure of grim resignation. He squared his already square shoulders, tipped his head back, and she nodded a single time. Captain Raydor had brought him here not to assist her in questioning Stroh – not to assist in any conventional sense – but to be Brenda Leigh Johnson's guard dog.

"Good," said the older woman in that silky, unaffected way she had. "We'll meet back here."

"Captain Ray—" Brenda exclaimed, not getting the second syllable out before Raydor cut her off by stepping in very close, almost toe to toe.

"This is not open for debate, Chief Investigator," Raydor murmured, speaking directly into the shell of the other woman's small pink ear. "In your current role, you have the right to observe the interview. As a key witness, you certainly do not have the right to participate in the interview."

"I'll just –"

"No, you won't just, Brenda. You wouldn't be content to sit quietly, and we all know that." Apparently satisfied, Sharon stepped back. Sanchez shivered, a rush of electricity whose source he didn't care to ponder shooting down his spine. The captain's mouth twitched almost into a smile, and suddenly she sounded sympathetic. She gestured toward the first door. "You will sit here with Detective Sanchez and observe through this lovely if obvious two-way mirror."

"Will you at least wear an earwig?" Brenda called shrilly at the captain's retreating back, and Sanchez turned his chuckle into a cough. After all this time, had the former deputy chief still not learned that the captain was a formidable opponent? She never broke, and she seldom bent – and even then usually in a direction she chose.

Metal grated across the floor as the detective dragged the two chairs back from the scarred table and gestured between them and the infuriated blonde. "Chief," he intoned politely, "shall we?"


	5. secondhand news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty procedural, but soon we will adjust course and become more relationship focused. Bear with, as I try to make this case seem believable.

Chapter Five: secondhand news

For the first time in her memory, Brenda was too angry to speak.

As soon as that awful gate clattered shut behind them, she stormed out of the prison, not pausing to acknowledge anyone, and didn’t stop until she reached Sanchez’s Crown Vic. She couldn’t look at Raydor right now, or she’d have to spit in her patrician face.

“Would you like to go back to your office, Chief?” Julio asked. She detected a hopeful note.

“I would not,” she replied coldly as the doors unlocked. Logically she understood Sanchez couldn’t be blamed for Raydor’s little stunt, but that didn’t stop her from feeling like he was a traitor. They were all traitors.

From behind that mirror, she hadn’t been able to look at Stroh, and then she hadn’t been able to look away. He was like a cobra, hypnotic and deadly.

She hated him, hated the man with a full-blooded intensity that coursed through her veins and lit her up like a righteous fire. She was Joan of Arc, she was the burning bush, she was the voice crying out in the wilderness, and she didn’t care that she was mixing her metaphors. She was mad as hell, and she had to save this investigation because her successor was incompetent. She had thought of Raydor as many things, but incompetent -- no, she had always seemed relentlessly competent. Now she had proven herself to be no detective, and she was in over her head. That was as charitable as Brenda’s thoughts were likely to get.

Angry as she was, it was hard to maintain that level of intensity for an hour in LA traffic.Her adrenaline ebbed, her blood sugar dropped, and there was pain flaring right between her eyebrows when she eventually made it to Will’s office. She needed a candy bar and to kick someone in the teeth, not necessarily in that order.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the chief announced without bothering to greet her, bringing Brenda up short. “Chief Taylor strongly discouraged Captain Raydor from allowing you to accompany her to the prison. It was only because she interceded on your behalf that I let you go at all.”

“That you let me go,” she echoed in disbelief, staring at the shiny bald pate of the man she’d known for twenty years and feeling like she was confronting a stranger.

“Yes, Brenda, that I let you. I am the chief of police. I decide. You don’t even work here!”

“I work for the County of Los Angeles,” she retorted.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what business the County of Los Angeles had with Phillip Stroh this morning, or in my murder room yesterday, but if the District Attorney would like to call and have a conversation with me about that, please tell him he’s more than welcome. I’d love the chance to catch up.”

The power play was distasteful, but one thing stuck in her craw worse than any of the rest. “Your murder room!”

“Mine, or Captain Raydor’s, if you’d prefer.”

Why don’t you just pee on it, Brenda thought. She kept her lips clamped together.

“Look, Brenda, this case is personal for you, and I get that. We all have one.” 

“Oh, yeah? You got somebody who tried to murder you in your own kitchen?”

“That’s why I’m allowing you to be involved,” Pope continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Officially, you don’t belong here. I know it, Chief Taylor knows it, Captain Raydor knows it. And let’s face it, you know it too. You were a fantastic interrogator, no one is disputing that, but don’t come in here and act like you’re the one doing us a favor.”

That was when she felt the floor open up beneath her feet. When someone tapped at the door, she was surprised to see she hadn’t plummeted several stories.

After all this time, with all their shared history, Will thought he was doing her a favor?

“Excuse me, sir. Ma’am.” Detective Sykes’s keen eyes were even keener than usual, alight with excitement. “When you’ve finished, there’s something the captain would like you to see in the murder room, chief investigator.”

“I think we’ve finished,” Will said.

Brenda spared him a glance before turning to the younger woman. “Oh, we’re finished,” she agreed, and Sykes smiled as she turned, eager to return with her prize like a good retriever.

“There you are,” Provenza said as soon as he spotted the blonde. “Come see what Tao found.”

“Andy helped,” Mike volunteered, pleased with himself and willing to share the credit. Brenda walked around and looked over Tao’s shoulder.

“A yearbook?”

He adjusted his glasses. “Not everything is digitized. UCLA Law, Class of ‘01. Look.” He jabbed the page, and Brenda fumbled for her own glasses before she gave up and settled for squinting. 

“Heather Murray,” she murmured, not needing to read the name of the smiling blonde. This was one of the faces she’d never forget, one of the ones for whom she hadn’t been able to get justice.

Heather’s body had been found in her West Hollywood apartment not long after Brenda joined the LAPD. She had been raped. Although the culprit would have been charged with felony murder for causing her death during the commission of a crime, the medical examiner had ruled that Heather’s death was accidental. The attorney had been suffocated with a throw pillow that her rapist had used to muffle her cries.

No one had been charged with anything, though; they’d never even had a strong suspect. This, of course, was years before Brenda first heard the name Phillip Stroh.

Later it made sense. Later, too late to do any good, they learned that Heather had interned at Stroh’s firm while she was still at UCLA. They couldn’t prove it, and even Brenda had to accept that they likely never would, but they all regarded Heather as Stroh’s first victim.

“Yes. Now see here.” Tao flipped back a couple of pages. Brenda found herself looking at a weak-chinned blond man, over a decade younger but still easily recognizable.

“Tom Gravier,” she said. “Well, well.” She looked toward her former office, and frowned when she saw that the blinds were closed. “She in there?” Brenda asked with a jerk of her head.

“Yes, she sent Amy looking for you, but you should probably wait until --”

Someday Brenda might learn that letting Tao finish his sentences could save her from a number of awkward situations, but it wasn’t likely. As she threw open the captain’s office door, the blonde was already saying, “Now there’s no way you can sit there and tell me Stroh isn’t inv--”

She broke off when she realized what she had walked into. 

“Oh my God, Brenda’s here too?” Rusty exclaimed from his standing position near Sharon’s desk. “So I am, like, literally the last person to know about this.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Sharon replied mildly. She had removed her glasses, but still held them in both hands. 

“Sharon, I read it on the internet!” 

“Rusty, I intended to discuss this last night when you got home. Since you decided to spend the night at Michael’s --”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you didn’t tell me?” he cut in. Brenda wondered if anyone had ever interrupted Sharon and lived to tell the tale. “You lied to me. You promised you wouldn’t keep anything from me again, and you lied. I should have known you’d be just like every other adult.”

Sharon flinched but recovered quickly, at least outwardly. She stood. “I have never broken a promise to you. I know you’re angry and scared, honey, but this is not the way to deal with it. We will talk about this tonight. For now, Detective Sykes will drive you back to school, but before you go, apologize to Brenda for being rude.”

Brenda stiffened in surprise at being drawn into this two-handed drama. Rusty gaped. “Why doesn’t she have to apologize?” he retorted. “The way she came storming in here was definitely rude.”

“Well, he’s got me there,” the younger woman put in with an uncomfortable smile.

“Rusty,” Sharon repeated.

He looked over and met Brenda’s eyes for a couple of seconds. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Sharon gestured Rusty toward the door and moved to accompany him. Turning back to Brenda she said, “Have a seat. I’ll only be a moment.”

Brenda had no idea what to say about the scene she had just witnessed. She was both embarrassed and curious about this new side of the captain, the parenting side. Good Lord, what would have happened to Rusty if Brenda was still in charge of Major Crimes? She certainly wouldn’t have taken him home to live with her. She supposed he’d be in foster care somewhere, and he’d probably be fine, but still -- At the thought, she felt a flush of shame creeping up her chest. Say what you would about Sharon, she was a good, generous person.

“He’s lookin’ a lot better,” Brenda offered lamely when the brunette had returned and closed the door.

Sharon opened the blinds and paused with her hand on the toggle. “Yes, he’s been doing well. He’s a really good kid -- impulsive, but a good kid.”

“I admire you for doin’ that,” Brenda blurted. “For takin’ him in like that. I don’t know how you do it. I surely couldn’t have.”

Sharon frowned, her brow wrinkling in perplexity. “What else was there to do?”

Now acutely ill at ease, Brenda changed the subject. “Now that Tao’s found the connection to Heather Murray, you can’t keep denyin’ Stroh’s involvement in this.”

“I’ve never denied it, Brenda.” Sharon moved back behind her desk, but took her time sitting down. Annoyed by the advantage that gave the other woman, Brenda stood too. “All I’ve said is that we have to pursue every line of inquiry, and this doesn’t change that. Yes, the link to Heather Murray is a disturbing coincidence --”

“A coincidence!” Brenda shrieked.

“What I mean is that we have to treat it like a coincidence until we can prove otherwise. You do remember rudimentary investigative methods?”

Brenda scowled. “We could be landin’ a great white shark, and you’re content fishin’ for minnows!”

“Okay, that. That right there.” Sharon stabbed the air with one finger in her best school marm fashion. “Do you hear yourself? We are talking about a person or persons who are responsible for the brutal rape and murder of a twenty-three-year-old woman -- hardly ‘minnows.’”

Brenda breathed out harshly. “I am not minimizin’ the gravity of these crimes.” Her accent came on strong, almost a parody of itself, as it did whenever she worked hard to keep a handle on her emotions. “But there are layers to an investigation like this one, and you’re missin --”

“You sound obsessed,” the captain interrupted, matter-of-fact. “You sound like you’re obsessed with Phillip Stroh, which is exactly what --”

“You sound like a bureaucrat.” 

“Please do not interrupt me again,” Sharon said, which was hypocritical. “Brenda, you are smarter than this. Stroh is waving his red flag in front of you, and I know you know that, yet you keep running at it.”

The other woman’s stubborn refusal to get angry and have a go at her was gradually cooling Brenda’s temper to a steady simmer. She glared at Sharon from beneath lowered brows. “If by that you mean I want to put the most dangerous criminal I’ve ever encountered on death row, then you’re right.”

“Okay.” The captain folded her arms. “If we want the big fish, we have to start with the bait.”

“I thought you disapproved of my metaphor.”

“I’m adapting. We have no physical evidence linking Stroh to anything. He is not going to confess. He is not going to incriminate himself.”

“Oh, but your little amateur hour down at the prison was so compellin’,” Brenda sneered, and she knew she was just being ugly. That was what her mama would have called it, and she would have been right, but Stroh had a way of making all the ugliness in her rise to the top.

The captain flinched, just like she had when Rusty called her a liar. “He seems to have found you equally compelling in the past,” she pointed out. 

Sharon was right too. That was what galled Brenda most of all. She had never come close to breaking Stroh. The one time he had taken the bait she’d held out to him, he had almost taken her and Rusty along to the cemetery right with it.

Brenda wanted another chance at him. She needed another chance.

Sharon laid a hand upon her arm, just above her elbow. “Let’s start with Tom Gravier,” the older woman said softly, placatingly. 

After a few seconds Brenda breathed out slowly and nodded. “Have ‘em bring him in,” she agreed.

The corner of Sharon’s mouth twitched up into a smile as her arm returned to her side. “Oh, I already did. Andy and Julio should be back any time.”

Brenda huffed, incredulous. “Then what are we even arguin’ for?”

The other corner of the captain’s mouth twitched up to match. “It’s just so stimulating.”

“Are you tellin’ me you’re enjoyin’ this?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “But it’s never boring.”

“I wanna be the one to question him.”

“All right.”

“You’ll see, it’ll be to your advantage, too, if I go in an’ win him over, an’ then you can -- ‘All right’?!”

Sharon nodded. “We’ll go together, but you can lead.”

Brenda gaped at her just like Rusty had. “Is this another trick?”

The captain rolled her eyes. “Stop fishing, Chief Investigator. It isn’t attractive. You’re the stronger interrogator, so the logical course of action is for you to lead the interview.” She looked through the blinds, saw Flynn, and added, “Ah, here we go. Shall we?”

2.

The interrogation, if you could call it that, was the biggest anticlimax of Brenda Leigh Johnson’s career.

She hadn’t even had the time to soak up the feeling of being back at the table, much less to practice the finesse and restraint, the careful manipulation of those psychological pressure points that had made her a master of the art. They’d barely gotten Tom Gravier into the chair before the bastard had confessed.

He hadn’t broken down; he had caved in on himself, visibly shrinking to take up as little space as possible. “I raped those girls, and I killed Kerry,” he had said calmly and quietly. “I didn’t mean to, but I can’t stop myself. Please stop me.”

In their combined five decades of law enforcement experience, Sharon and Brenda had seen plenty, had sometimes both thought they’d seen it all. But Brenda had felt the way the older woman had stiffened as she sat beside her, and had known the captain was as astonished as she was by Gravier’s facile confession.

Brenda’s first thought, and she was sure it had also been Sharon’s, was that he was lying to protect his younger brother, but they had taken him through each crime, and he had provided details only someone who was present could have known. But had Tom Gravier been the sole perpetrator, Philip Stroh’s puppet, his brother’s partner, or perhaps merely a witness?

When the two women had emerged from the interview room, Provenza had had the charge sheet ready to go. He handed it to his captain, and she said, “I want you and Lieutenant Tao to go in there, and go over all of it again.”

“You’re not going to charge him?” Provenza asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Oh, we’re going to charge him.” The brunette’s mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. “But he’s not going anywhere, so let’s make sure we charge him with the right crimes.”

Brenda courteously waited until she thought they couldn’t be overheard to say, “I suppose you’ve considered the fact that Peter Gravier could be crossin’ the border right now.”

“Nope,” Flynn supplied. Where the hell had he come from? “He’s having a vodka and soda at the Charter Club. Probably counting calories,” he surmised with a sneer.

Raydor nodded. “Detective Sanchez is tailing him,” she explained.

“Day drinking,” the lieutenant continued. “Bad sign.”

“What about Stroh?”

“Well, we know where he is,” the captain retorted. Over her shoulder, Flynn grinned.

“I’m goin’ to talk to him.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t need your permission, Sharon.”

“No you don’t, Brenda, but you need Chief Pope’s. Think you’re likely to get it?”

The two women had squared up and faced off in the middle of the Murder Room, which had grown very quiet. After a few seconds, Brenda relented. She knew she hadn’t meant it in the first place. She could insist on seeing Stroh because Sharon would refuse, and if by some miracle she hadn’t, Will would blow a gasket -- and she had already seen one police chief felled by an aneurysm. In her heart of hearts, Brenda knew going to interview Stroh would do more harm than good. She said nothing, but the captain saw the alteration and nodded.

“Do you need to change before the funeral?” she asked, giving Brenda’s navy dress a quick once-over.

“Into what?” Brenda sassed back, and the older woman didn’t even look annoyed.

“Great. We’re going to run an errand.”

“Oh, are we?”

“You can stay here if you’d rather, and ride with Lieutenant Provenza.”

Brenda Leigh gritted her teeth and muttered, “Let me get my coat.”

 

3.

Kerry’s funeral service was scheduled for three p.m., and it was only a little past noon. That gave them plenty of time, and Sharon could always use the siren if they were cutting it close. 

“Jackie Small called me while you were having your chat with Chief Pope,” Sharon revealed when they were alone in the elevator, as if she were rewarding Brenda for good behavior. “She’s very anxious about the fate of her research notes. So anxious, in fact, that I was notified by patrol that she tried to break into the house Peter and Kerry shared last night.”

“Well, well,” Brenda murmured, her eyes narrowed. “That’s real interestin’.”

“Yes, I thought so too.”

“You think these research notes are somethin’ like a signed photo of her and Bruce Willis?”

It took Sharon a second to get the reference to a string of robberies Major Crimes and Professional Standards had worked during Brenda’s last few months on the force. She smirked. “Perhaps,” she consented. “They’re obviously valuable to Jacqueline.”

“So we should make sure she gets ‘em back.”

“Indeed,” replied the captain. Her eyes sparkled. “Great minds.”

Flynn was waiting for them in the lobby. The two women exchanged a brief glance. Had he teleported? If this building had a system of secret passageways, Flynn and his erstwhile partner would be the ones to know about them.

“Sharon,” he said, “uh, captain. I was thinking.”

Brenda refrained from making a comment about the danger of that, but noted that the lieutenant had never dared call her Brenda. That was interesting -- and distasteful. Raydor and Andy Flynn? Eww, no. Just no. She smacked her lips as if literally ejecting the taste from her mouth.

Serious green eyes blinked at Flynn.

“So Kerry’s scumbag stalker said he didn’t see anything the night of her murder, right?”

“Right,” the captain agreed.

“So he didn’t notice the object of his crazy affections being raped and murdered?”

Raydor’s expression didn’t change as she waited for him to come out with whatever he wanted to say.

“Or did he mean he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary? Because Peter’s brother, that would be ordinary, right?”

“Right,” Sharon mused. 

“Or maybe there wasn’t anythin’ to see at all,” Brenda volunteered, and Sharon nodded.

“What do you want to do?” she asked her lieutenant.

“I dunno, you think Jeff Campbell’s got a suit?” he returned, and Sharon smirked.

“All right, go pick him up and take him to the funeral, see if he recognizes anyone else, but --”

“I’ll keep him out of sight,” Flynn promised with a jaunty salute and a nod to Brenda. “And then I’ll bring him back here and slow-walk him past the interview room.”

“You know,” Brenda said after he strode off, “your repartee with Lieutenant Flynn makes me uncomfortable.” She was only half joking. Raydor snorted. “You want a coffee?” she continued, mistress, as ever, of changing the subject. “We’ve got time. I’m buyin’.”

Sharon darted a glance toward the kiosk in the corner of the lobby and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll pass. I should probably warn you that the coffee has not improved since your departure.” She looked past Brenda, sucked in a little breath, jammed her hands in her pockets, and hurriedly said, “You know, actually, coffee sounds good. Bad coffee is better than nothing, right? And I’ll buy. Lots of sugar, lots of cream?” 

Brenda turned to see what had caused Sharon’s sudden awkwardness, but really, she already knew. It was bound to happen eventually. The LAPD was big, but it wasn’t that big. 

Fritz, his appearance in his police uniform striking a sour note, was walking straight toward them, as inevitable as death and taxes.


End file.
